Fortune's Gate
by geo3
Summary: Alternate Universe story in which Anakin doesn't get trained by the Jedi, so he goes back to Tatooine and gets on with his life. Everything else in the Galaxy remains much the same. When Anakin and Dooku finally do meet, it is not as enemies...
1. introduction and Preamble

Well, hello there!

I bet you thought I'd gone missing. Well, I had for a while. Got a little burned out on fanfic after the lengthy "Anakin's Saga" trilogy. But good characters just won't stay quiet, so here I am again, starting another (probably lengthy) story about Anakin Skywalker, his friends, and his enemies. This one is AU, though. Here's the premise:

I'll post the preamble now. Chapters will follow on a weekly basis (fingers crossed) beginning on or about Friday, January 16.

Thanks for reading!

**Fortune's Gate**

**Watch your thoughts, they become words.**

**Watch your words, they become actions.**

**Watch your actions, they become habits.**

**Watch your habits, they become your character.**

**Watch your character, it becomes your destiny.**

---**Unknown**

**Preamble**

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Damned if it wasn't the first thing that the Thirlian passenger said in the two standard weeks he'd been aboard Honat's little cargo ship. Two weeks of bumping into one another in the narrow passageways, of sharing meals and water and enduring each other's farts and snores, and the stuck-up stranger hadn't seen fit to utter one single word. Not so much as a "hello" or a "pass the beaker." Now that they were near landing, suddenly he felt the need to tell him what to do and how to do it?

Honat briefly weighed the indignity of the Thirlian's remark against the fat fee the man had paid for passage, and decided that it wasn't worth getting riled up over.

"Huh," he snorted neutrally, and kept his eyes on the nav. computer. In a few minutes they'd have set down and the man would go his own way, leaving behind only the bars of iridium Honat had hidden away in his favorite secret compartment.

It was a _lot_ of iridium. A _huge_ overpayment for the passage. He could afford to keep the peace.

"I mean it," the Thirlian said more sharply. "If you try to land without clearance, you're going to regret it."

"S'hispit," Honat muttered foully. He knew what he was doing. He was doing the same thing that he did all over the Galaxy: coming and going as he pleased, avoiding landing taxes and cargo inspections. He was a _pirate, _for flip's sake. He knew his business. Especially on back-end-of nowhere, thinly populated, low-tech dust ball planets like this one. He'd never been to Tatooine before, but he knew the type. Pirate's heaven, these places were. All he needed to do was to slip under whatever tracking system the ports used, set down in the outskirts, and dampen down all of his feeds. Nobody'd know they were there but the local wildlife.

Especially the bugs. There were always bugs in places like this. He scratched his stubbly neck just thinking about it.

A high reedy tone signaled that the computer had located all the comms. nets. He studied the display to see where and how densely the signals overlapped, and sure enough, found holes between them big enough to land a fleet in. Nobody'd notice one little ship. He picked a blackspace that was about equidistant between a spaceport called Mos Eisley and a town of some kind, and entered the coordinates for landing.

"Are you out of your mind?" the Thirlian yelled, and reached for the comm. without asking permission.

"Leave off!" Honat growled, batting the man's arm away so hard it smashed against the wall that curved around the console. "And shuddup, willya? I know what I'm doing."

"You stupid, crazy pirate," the Thirlian hissed, cradling his wrist. "You're going to get us both killed!"

Honat ignored him.

The console blared an alarm.

Honat stared at the normal readouts uncomprehendingly, and then instinctively looked out the viewscreen for confirmation. It was pitch dark, of course. They were too far down into the atmosphere already to see the stars and too far up to see the ground. Nothin' out there but a faint streak of…

Wait.

In the time it took him to look back down at his console the faint streak appeared on the readout. He stared, not fully understanding what he was seeing. It was coming awfully fast…

About the last thing Honat remembered was a screaming sound. It might have been the ship. It might have been whatever hit it. It might have been his own voice screeching in fury and terror. Anyway, it was the last thing he heard for a very, very long time, until he woke up in the desert alone in bright daylight, parched nearly to death, wearing only the scraps that remained of what had once been his clothes, and itching like crazy.

_Sand fleas,_ he thought groggily. _There's always bugs in these places._

The first thing he saw, when he could see again, was the flask of water that had been left by his elbow. Not far away, his ship lay half buried in the sand, her cargo bay doors wide open, and her compartments visibly empty. The Thirlian was gone. There weren't even any tracks – the desert had long since swept them over.

Honat drank the water thirstily, even though it was hot near to boiling. He didn't hurry to get up and check his ship. He was pretty sure without looking that his stash of auridium was gone too, along with every last useful component from his ship's pathetic looking carcass.

The pirate had been pirated, pure and simple. And whoever had done it was a lot better at it that he was.


	2. Chapter 1 Desert Man

**Chapter 1. Desert Man**

If wealth consists in the abundance of that which is scarce, the deep cave somewhere underneath Sinon's Ridge was Tatooine's equivalent of a palace fit for Kings, of greater worth even than the excesses of the old Hutt fortress, because the cave was sodden with the desert planet's most precious substance: pure, drinkable water. There was so much water that it sluiced down the cave's walls, saturating the air with moisture and soothing the ear with the faint, eternal sound that calms the souls of those who have one and the nerves of those who don't. Half-round catchment pipes dug into the cave's rocky floor funneled every drop of the precious substance into something never before seen on Tatooine: a pool big enough to drown a bantha in. Even the Hutt hadn't possessed such a thing. There was more water in that cave than all of the planet's hardscrabble moisture farmers together saw in a year. It was priceless. It was more than priceless – it was impossible. But there it was.

The cave was the domain of the men Honat thought of as pirates.

Its existence was a secret that so far, however improbably, had been kept within their number.

And it was all the work of one single human man – a young man – a very young man, in the eyes of some who had seen far more of the world's turnings than he. Even so, they respected him in their rough way. By the hells, it was more than respect. He was the antithesis of everything they knew to be true, the exception to every otherwise immutable rule. He had knocked down ancient laws of existence and made things happen that had never happened before. Slavery was a thing of the past. So was the heavy hand of the Hutt. People lived free on Tatooine.

"Free to starve and die," some muttered, and not without reason. Slavery and the gangster's money had been central to the planet's economy, such as it was. Without them, life had been harder than ever, and even the burgeoning profession of piracy didn't supply enough wealth to go around.

Still, exposure to new truths and new perspectives about existence is a powerful transformative experience, and the people who knew about the cave were not immune to wonder and awe. So the young man, the very young man whose design had transformed the cave into the miracle it was, received a measure of respect from the ones who followed him that was similar to the Hutt of old. In fact, they had made him their leader because he was a local hero, because he always seemed to come up with new solutions for old problems, and, quite frankly, because there wasn't anyone who didn't think his out-of-the-ordinaryness was just a little bit magical.

The Thirlian, by contrast, was a sophisticate, an experienced traveler, a man knowledgeable about the Galaxy's wonders and entirely lacking his captor's rough simplicity. He looked around him and saw only a dank, wet hole in the ground, poorly lit and smelling like ancient graves. The fabled pool might as well have led to a sewer as far as he knew or cared. Of course, he could only see so far because the chains that held him in place were short and tight.

The people who had found him – the same ones, he was sure, who had knocked the dimwitted pirate's little vessel out of the sky – had been quite immune to his insistence on being conducted immediately to the nearest town. They had searched him for weapons and then ignored him while they systematically stripped the downed ship of anything that might have value. It was a tedious job that took fifteen or twenty of them the rest of the night and half the next day using hand labor to load the spoils onto some huge, smelly pack beasts. There were no droids in sight and very few speeders, none of them loaders. The rising day had changed freezing cold to infernal heat, and the Thirlian had tried many times to get his captors' attention, but they had treated him as if he was still out cold like that idiot Honat. That showed him pretty clearly just how far he was from civilization, and how likely they thought it was that he would escape alone and on foot and live to tell about it. In fact, he suspected that they hoped he would try, so they wouldn't have to deal with him.

Finally, he had tried to steal one of their speeders when no one was looking.

Apparently, someone had been.

When he came to, he was inside this dim, wet cave, chained to the only dry wall in a large chamber distinguished only by a black pool of water at the center. The back of his head still throbbed. No one had come in or out since he'd regained consciousness, and that was a long time ago. He was tired, uncomfortable, thirstier than ever in the midst of an excess of water, and deeply annoyed.

He was wiggling his toes inside of his miserably wet boots when at last he heard echoey voices in a chamber somewhere beyond the one in which he was moldering. They seemed to be arguing in a language he didn't recognize.

At the moment, he couldn't even remember what language they spoke in this forsaken place. The Outer Rim planets were barely civilized, and only nominally part of the Galactic Federation. Of course, that was why the Count of Serenno had dispatched him to Tatooine. Unloved planets were ripe for picking by a charismatic, caring leader. The Separatist cause was scooping them up by the droves. It only required a little careful advance preparation by skilled agitators …

Two men came into the chamber, so heavily cloaked and hooded that the Thirlian wondered whether it was already cold night again up above. He'd lost all sense of time. The men stopped talking before they entered, so their footsteps echoed loudly on the wet floor. When they stopped in front of him, the Thirlian looked boldly into what little he could see of the taller man's face inside the shadows of his deep cowl.

"I demand to know why you are holding me."

"I'd rather we weren't." The tall man spoke perfect Basic in a voice that was unexpectedly soft.

"Then let me go!"

"I wish I could."

"It's easy." The Thirlian rattled a short chain. "You get the key, open these, and point me to the door, or opening, or however you get in and out of this place."

The shorter man snorted something the Thirlian didn't understand. It didn't sound nice.

"You would regret it," the tall man said mildly. "The sand would cover your bones in a day or two, if the Tuskens didn't get you first."

"Well, then," the Thirlian said irritably, "you'd better give me some food and something to drink and a bed for the night. And a ride to the nearest town tomorrow."

The shorter man made a sudden movement that was instantly contained when the taller man touched his arm.

"All right," the taller man said. "About the food and drink and bed, anyway."

The Thirlian and the shorter man both stared at him.

"Let him go," the taller man said.

Reluctantly the other complied. He had to lower his cowl to better see the locks in the dim light, revealing a light-eyed man with shaggy medium-brown hair who looked a bit weathered around the edges, but still young. His hands were strong and work worn. The expression on his broad face was sullen. The Thirlian remained quite still and resisted the urge to comment. When the manacles fell away from his wrists he rubbed them vigorously.

When the Thrilian's feet had been freed, the taller man said, "Follow me."

With the shorter man walking right behind him, the Thirlian didn't feel he had much choice. He walked. Anything had to be better than that damp cave, anyway.

Beyond the chamber containing the pool was a twisting passage through the rock, lit by glowlamps like the pool chamber, but brighter. Beyond that in a wide-open chamber was something more architectural – a series of levels built into the rock, with clearly man-made floors, walls and stairs. Underground dwellings made sense, the Thirlian reasoned, on a planet that was covered in sand.

There were a few people scattered around the multi-level structure. All of them stopped whatever they were doing or saying to stare at the little procession as it passed. Briefly he wondered what he must look like after his ordeal, but really, he was a lot more interested in when they would give him a drink and a meal.

The tall man led him up two long flights of stairs to a high, round room that seemed to be nestled against a solid wall of rock. On the side that faced the cavern, a wide opening was secured only by a single railing. Otherwise the room was open to a whole series of stairs and mezzanines above and below, and just as its occupants could oversee the whole dwelling structure, everyone who passed by could see inside. At the center of the room was a roughly made round table surrounded by a dozen or so primitive chairs. No repulsor lifts here. The place was practically prehistoric. The Thirlian wondered what kind of comms. facilities they had.

The tall man gestured graciously enough for the Thirlian to take a seat. He did, and watched with interest when his host finally reached up to remove his cloak. It surprised him – and he prided himself on being a man who was not easily surprised – to see that the tall man who seemed to be the decision-maker was even younger than the stocky one who had unshackled him. The Thirlian wondered whether he had so much as three hairs of a beard yet, and was uncertain whether to think of him as a boy or a man. He was lean and angular, and held his shoulders very straight. His skin, his shaggy hair, which curled down his neck, and his simple clothes were all variations of a sand color that probably blended perfectly with the wasteland above them. In contrast to the rough, peasant look of his gray-eyed companion, the planes of the tall one's faces were well defined, and his eyes were a marked blue. He had a way of looking at things that didn't seem to miss much.

He was looking at the Thirlian now. The Thirlian looked back.

"Who are you?" The blue-eyed one asked.

"I could ask you the same thing."

Blue-eyes didn't blink. "You first. That is, if you're hungry and thirsty."

"I am thirsty in the extreme," The Thirlian said truthfully. "And I would very much appreciate some food."

The blue-eyed one studied him for an uncomfortably long time before finally waving a hand in his companion's direction. The shorter man stood and left the open room by a back stairway.

"Who are you?" the blue-eyed one asked again, finally taking a seat.

There was something in the evenness of his tone, in the hints of flexibility he had shown, and above all in the attention in his gaze that warned the Thirlian not to take this one lightly, no matter how young he looked. As a professional in the business of persuading people, he was keenly attuned to subtle clues as to their nature. And all signs seemed to indicate that it would be politic to take his host seriously.

"My name is Dorn Wieeder, originally from Thirlia, but for a long time I have traveled throughout the Galaxy on … business."

"What business?"

Dorn hesitated, feeling sure that exactly how he answered the question was crucial.

"I am in the business of bringing hope to those who have none."

The blue eyes of the man opposite narrowed suddenly, but the man said nothing.

Dorn persevered. "I am an associate of a man called Count Dooku of Serenno. Have you heard of him?"

The desert man shook his head.

"You will. And not only you. The whole Galaxy will soon have heard not only his name, but of his cause." Dorn leaned forward into the steady blue gaze. "When I say that I am an associate of this great man – and he is a great man, of that I can assure you – that is only partially true. I am a follower of this man, who believes that the Galaxy should be a place where all beings have the opportunity to share equally in its vast wealth of opportunity. I am a believer in the cause he brings to the downtrodden, the forgotten, the suffering people of the Galaxy – the cause that tells us the time has come to rise up against the greed and corruption of the wealthy, and to tear ourselves out of the grip of the lawmakers who are in their thrall."

"An aristocrat is the champion of the poor and forgotten?" the desert man asked dryly.

"He is a Count by birth, but for most of his life he was a Jedi. He left the Jedi Order because he disagreed with their unwillingness to champion the cause of the suffering."

Dorn had more to say, a great deal more, but stopped there because of the distinct sense that something in the atmosphere had changed. The desert man still sat quietly, watching him attentively, but it was as if the temperature in the room had suddenly dropped a few degrees. It made Dorn want to shiver.

Fortunately, the other man chose that moment to return with a laden tray. With visibly ill humor he set down on the table a large metal pitcher full of water and three metal cups. The gray-eyed man shoved a plate piled high with some kind of meat directly in front of Dorn, pushed the empty tray to the far side of the table, and sat down and with his arms crossed.

The blue-eyed young man pushed a cup toward Dorn and filled it with water before serving the other man and finally himself.

"Drink," he said.

Dorn didn't have to be asked twice. Three glasses of remarkably cool and fresh tasting water later, he wiped his chin on his sleeve, realizing too late how filthy it was. "Thank you. And I do like to know my host's name. It makes conversation so much easier, don't you think?"

The young man nodded thoughtfully, ignoring his companion's warning scowl. "I'm Anakin Skywalker," he said. "This is my brother, Owen Lars. Now tell me more about this former…" and here his tone changed, in a way Dorn couldn't quite pinpoint … "Jedi."

x

It was nearly sunset by the time the exhausted Thirlian was finally allowed to collapse on a pallet in a secure corner of the underground complex. Despite the uncertainty of his circumstances, he sank into a deep, snoring sleep, oblivious to the tension his presence had caused between the two young men of the desert who had fed him and listened to his pitch.

While he slept, a small bubble-topped speeder emerged from a shadowed rock face of Tarpin's Ridge and headed north by northwest at a roaring pace. There was good reason for speed. The Tusken raiders would soon be out in force, and ridges and buttes were their favorite vantage points. As usual, Anakin was gunning the speeder as if it was a starfighter, but for once Owen didn't insist that he slow down. It was best to be far away from the shadows of the rocks by dark. Besides, he had more pressing worries on his mind.

"What do you think you're doing with that Thirlian, Anakin? Bringing him into the cave in the first place is dangerous for us. He's an outsider, for flak's sake!"

"I know, I know." Anakin hung low in the seat, his face a mask of concentration as the horizon hurtled toward them "I just had a feeling about him. Like there's something coming toward me… toward us … and he's the messenger. I had to talk to him."

"Something … coming … toward you." Owen repeated, with exaggerated patience.

"Yes. Something big."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. But Owen, can't you feel it? And all those things he was saying about the Separatists… something is happening. The Galaxy is pulling apart."

"The Galaxy isn't our problem. Surviving is."

Anakin didn't answer.

"Are you just going to let him go now? Set him free, to tell everyone about …" The speeder swerved violently around an outcropping, cutting off Owen's breath for speech. "… about the cave? About the water?" he continued doggedly when he got it back.

"We're about ready to start distributing the water anyway," Anakin said. "And Wieeder has no idea about the technology behind it. Nor does he care."

"And you know this because…"

"I just do."

Owen leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to master the wave of exasperation that these discussions with his brother invariably produced in him.

"This is about the Jedi again, isn't it?"

Anakin flew on silently, his eyes like slits against the expanse of orange-tinged sand.

"The man mentions one former Jedi who's stirring up trouble and you're all over him for … what ... three hours? Four?"

Silence.

"Anakin, are you ever going to give up this obsession of yours?"

"It's not an obsession."

"Like hell it isn't."

The speeder leaped into high gear, mashing Owen's guts against his spine. He hated it when Anakin did that. Sometimes the kid had no regard for anyone but himself. An incredible number of people looked up to him, they even worshiped him, but Owen often wondered whether Anakin cared half as much about them. He was always somewhere else in his head, always wishing to be somewhere else. Or so it seemed, anyway. He never really said.

Whatever happened to him back then when he was a little kid, when the Jedi took him offworld for a while, sure hadn't done him any favors. When Cliegg married Shmi and Owen suddenly found himself with a weird genius little brother, the kid already had a huge chip on his shoulder and a kind of dark private place inside of him where only Shmi could go. Sometimes. When he let her. Shmi said he wasn't like that before he went away, but Owen found that hard to imagine.

Then, as if he wasn't already different enough, there was the way the kid acted. Really serious all the time. Hard on himself about what he did and the way he did it. Not like a kid at all, even though he wasn't a slave any longer. When Owen would try to get him to loosen up, to fool around, have some fun, Anakin would talk about focus and mindfulness. He'd spend all of his free time, when he wasn't doing chores around the farm, working on projects in the garage, and begging Cliegg for money for materials. When Cliegg said no, he'd borrow the speeder without asking and go into town to do odd jobs to raise some cash. Then Cliegg would blow up at him and Shmi would try to protect Anakin, and Owen would get caught in the middle…

Somehow the kid had gotten together enough money to enter another pod race. He'd won it. And the next one. And the next one. In fact, between the ages of ten and fourteen he'd won every Boonta Eve pod race. He'd given all the money to Cliegg, minus what he needed for his projects, and the family had settled into an uneasy peace, which was hard enough to maintain with a local celebrity in their midst.

The speeder lurched to a halt so hard that Owen' restraining strap nearly burst across his chest. "Anakin! What in the seven hells…"

But Anakin had already raised the protective bubble, leaped out, and was running across the sand.

The first of the suns already had set. Hanging low in the sky, the remaining fireball contrasted vividly with the purple and orange streaks of the rising darkness. A short distance away, Anakin knelt down by what looked like a tattered mound. Coming closer, Owen saw that a human man lay crumpled in the cooling sand.

"Is he alive?"

"Just."

Anakin gathered the unconscious form up and over his shoulder, and then struggled back to his feet.

"What are you doing with him?"

"We can't leave him here."

"It's a two-man speeder! There's no room for him."

"Take off the bubble top. We'll lay him over the back."

"What's going to keep him there, the way you pilot?"

"You are," Anakin said shortly.

"Anakin, it's getting too late for this…

"Just do it, Owen!"

Sullenly, but wise enough not to argue, Owen removed the bubble top and tossed it aside. Odds were, they'd never see it again. The Tuskens were the ultimate scavengers, second only to Jawas. Cliegg would be annoyed, but he wouldn't say anything either. Not to Anakin, anyway. Not the way things were now.

Anakin laid the unconscious man across the back of the speeder, and between them, he and Owen fashioned a kind of sling from their belts to hold him there. When they took off again, Anakin kept his speed more reasonable, but instead of keeping on course toward the north, he turned the speeder due west into the setting sun.

"Now what're you doing?"

"Taking him into town."

"You're not bringing him to the farm with us?"

"No."

"It's too late for this. Shmi's waiting for you. You promised her…" Owen had to yell as Anakin speeded up and the wind tried to tear the words out of his mouth.

"Mom will understand," Anakin yelled back.

"Great. Just great." Without the bubble top, and traveling slowly enough not to loosen the body, they were completely vulnerable to whatever potshots a passing Tusken wanted to take at them. Owen searched around under the seat for a blaster rifle, which he propped prominently on his thigh.

"Better get the scope out, too," Anakin shouted. Without the windbreak, it was hard to talk.

"This is very noble of you, brother," Owen shouted back, his sarcasm ripped away by the wind. "I hope this guy is worth our getting killed."

"He's our responsibility," Anakin yelled. "This is the man whose ship we just took down. Somebody was supposed to drop him off in town before he woke up, but they just left him. Looks like he tried to walk out, but didn't make it far. If we don't take him there, he'll die."

Owen stopped arguing. The wind from the west was growing stiffer, and it just wasn't worth the effort. Besides, he knew he wouldn't win.

At the age of fourteen Anakin finally had figured out how to safely dismantle the transponder bombs that were implanted in slaves. Within a few short months, the world as they knew it had changed, and Anakin had gone from local celebrity to national hero. People went out of their way to do anything he asked – except for the local slavers, of course. They'd spent a lot of time trying to kill him, until the people, especially the freed ones, rose up and finally drove them offworld.

Then, as if that wasn't enough, the people's hero had asked them to stand up to the Hutt.

The gangster wars had lasted nearly two years and had brought Tatooine to its knees in the loss of lives and property. By the time the last of the Hutt and their minions fled, they had smuggled half the planet's wealth offworld with them. At the age of seventeen, Anakin stood at the center of a broken and bitterly impoverished society, besieged from within by the ever-bolder Tusken raiders, and overrun by untrammeled illegal trade from offworld, which quickly had arrived to fill the void left by the Hutt.

In desperation, the unemployed of Tatooine had turned to a little illegal trading of their own, aided and abetted by their hero and his endlessly inventive mind. Gradually, it was becoming known throughout the Galaxy's underworld that the planet of Tatooine was no longer ripe for picking, and needed to be approached with caution … and cash. Only a few, like the one who was now strung across the back of Cliegg Lars' second-best speeder, were foolish enough to think they could get completely free access.

Now, at nineteen, Anakin was about to change the world again with his hyper-efficient water condenser technology.

The second moon was halfway down the horizon and slipping fast. Diligently, Owen raked the darkening landscape through the scope, near and far, ahead and behind. So far, so good, but if they didn't get to town soon, Anakin's remarkable career might end here and now, and with it, Owen's distinctly less illustrious life.

"Can't you hurry it up a bit?" he shouted, trying to make himself heard in the wind.

He felt the speeder kick up. The body behind him swayed, but held. Owen had serious doubts that the man was still alive – he hadn't shown the slightest sign of consciousness despite all the manhandling – but he deferred to Anakin's judgment on that one. Anakin knew about things like that. He could find life in a squashed womp rat if there was so much as a single breath left.

"Owen, behind us!" Anakin's yell coincided with the speeder's sudden high-g turn. Owen clung to the blaster rifle for dear life. By the time he got the use of his arms back, they were facing the eastern night sky, which made a perfect backdrop for the red tracers that originated from a butte high up and to their right. Thanks to Anakin's quick turn, they were perfectly placed to return fire. Owen stood up in the speeder, bracing his strong legs against the seat and the side, and with the skill and instincts of a survival hunter blasted way a good chunk of the top of the ridge where the shots had come from. In the deep silence that followed, the man behind him on the speeder groaned and uttered something unhealthy-sounding.

"I think you got them," Anakin said.

"I think I did."

"Let's go."

Owen slid back down into his seat and Anakin swung the speeder around again, extracting another, louder groan from the hapless pirate. The western sky was nearly dark. Against its velvety softness, a hard white glow on the horizon indicated that Mos Eisley wasn't far away. Anakin pushed the speeder hard.

Before the wind completely shredded their last ability to speak, Owen heard him say, "You were right about one thing, brother."

"What's that?"

"I really, really should have gone straight to the farm."


	3. Chapter 2 Blood Sunset

**Chapter 2. Blood Sunset**

The suns seemed huge, sinking toward the horizon one after the other like great, glowing stones dipped in blood. Because she was restless, Shmi had walked as far as the western ridge to watch the display. In town, sunsets had never meant more than the end of the day. Out in the desert, they were a never-ending glory. She made it a ritual to be outside every evening from the first signs of eventide until the first stars appeared.

Cliegg hated that, of course. If it were up to him, he would lock down the farm long before dark every evening. During the years when Anakin (and with him, the rest of the family) had been in constant danger from slavers and gangsters, Cliegg had barely allowed her to go out in the desert alone. Now that Anakin and his 'people,' as he called the hardy souls who ganged around him, were more likely to be the aggressors than the victims, life had normalized to the extent their lives ever could. The only real remaining danger were the Tusken raiders, who had grown bolder and more aggressive in the past few years. No one really knew why. Cliegg still wanted Shmi inside long before sunset, but she always resisted. She never grew tired of the sense of space out in the desert, of the sheer vastness of the sky.

Shmi sat down on a rock that glowed gold with the last of the waning sun's rays to watch the fiery panorama of light give over, invariably, to darkness. She loved the way the colors raged hot and fierce before they quieted and cooled. She marveled that, in all the years she had been watching them, each sunset had been different, distinct, unlike any other. The skies, the land, the very air around her were infinitely varied, and yet eternally the same.

If there was one thing that you could count on, it was that the suns would set every evening, and rise again the next day.

Idly, Shmi reached down for a handful of sand and let it run through her fingers. Some of it drifted sideways onto her old brown skirt. She looked up. The colors near the horizon still burned, but a sudden gust of wind teased the stubborn tendrils of hair around her face into her eyes. A wind, straight from the west. How odd. It had been clear and still for days and days. She studied the distance as if the future was sprawled out against the painted sky, but the expanse to the horizon was empty and clear as far as she could see. No sign of a storm.

Anakin had promised that he would come to the farm before nightfall without fail. She held her hand to her eyes and studied the vast tracts of sand in the distance, willing a small black dot to appear from somewhere. From anywhere.

"Just come," she whispered. She missed him so. If he wasn't already close by, a storm could delay him for another day, maybe even two.

Far behind her, someone shouted her name.

She turned around and waved to Cliegg, who was gesturing to her from the top of the dome's steps. "I'm on my way!" she called out, but still she lingered, scanning the distance again with her eyes, her hopes, and her heart. The sudden wind gusted strong enough to whip her skirt against her legs.

"_Shmiiii…."_

Cleigg's voice was being blown in the other direction. She could barely hear him. In front of her, to the west, the last arc of the red disc that was Tatoo II slipped beneath the horizon, rapidly taking the colors and the last of the light with it. In the east, behind Cliegg and the farm's dome, the sky was already deep black and covered with stars.

Shmi always thought of the stars as Anakin's. As a small child, he had longed for them so much.

She stumbled several times climbing down off the ridge. The dark came so quickly in the desert; quite suddenly, it seemed that the only light now was the greenish glow that illuminated the dome, and that seemed very far away. She really had stayed out too long.

A single, brighter light seemed to be moving toward her: Cliegg, coming after her, carrying a lamp. She stumbled again, hurrying toward him, suddenly wanting nothing more than his arms wrapped around her and his rough voice scolding her for being reckless. She deserved to be scolded. Too much had happened over the years to justify taking chances…

It was the wind that warned her first.

The sharp, acrid smell of animal reached her before she heard a sound. She broke into a run, fighting the sand with every step.

"Shmiiiii!" Cliegg bellowed. The light bobbled closer. He was running too.

The ground beneath her struggling feet shook. _Banthas._ She ran harder.

The stench intensified, and with it came the sounds – the thudding of massive feet, the snorting of great breaths, the creak of leather …

Shmi hurled herself toward safety, toward Cliegg and home, running blindly, not daring to look back. The farm was a fortress if you were inside, but out here in the open there was no protection, none at all.

The sounds grew louder and something hit her from behind. She fell, and a great dark thing galloped past, raising clouds of sand.

Breathless, she somehow scrambled back to her feet, but another thing was just behind the first and something hit her again, but it wasn't a hit, something grabbed her, held her, began to pull her up…

"_Cliegg!"_ she screamed. Whatever was holding her had grabbed a great handful of her clothing and her hair. Her blouse was choking her as she rose; choking and tearing and hurting. She swung her arms and legs, fighting for some kind of hold but still it kept pulling and pulling, until a violent blast of red sent her flying to the ground. Pain shocked her blind. The thundering shook the ground around her and more blasts exploded into screams overhead, but she was limp as a rag. A vain effort to make a sound, to scream, filled her mouth with sand. Helpless, frozen, she endured until the sounds faded and a breath of fresh air replaced the stench.

Footsteps came closer; lighter ones, quieter. She trembled, but only inside because she was unable to move.

Hands touched her. She flinched.

"Shmi…"

Oh, it was Cliegg, it was Cliegg. She wanted to speak, to reach out for him, but she couldn't. Something on her face was wet. It ran down her cheek and into her mouth. She tasted blood amid the sand.

"It's all right, my dear, they're gone. It's all right," his beloved voice murmured, as he gently turned her over. The stars were out, she ought to be able to see the stars, but there was nothing, only Cliegg's voice and his touch, his hands stroking her face and then sliding carefully under her body and lifting her up.

_Where are the stars? _ Shmi wondered as she rested against him, her face rubbing against the rough material of his tunic with each step he took. _Why can't I see them? _She felt something hard and flat against his shoulder. _A strap,_ she thought. _The strap from his blaster rifle._ _He came out armed, even just to set the shields and the lights… _

Shmi tried to tell him how sorry she was, that she had been wrong and that she would never worry him that way again, but all that came out was a groan.

"There, there," Cliegg murmured, soothing her like a child. "All is well. There, there."

She knew something was truly wrong when she smelled the ozone from the dome's perimeter shielding and felt herself being eased through a narrow doorway – Cliegg turned her first this way, and then that – and especially when she heard 3PO's worried voice enquiring, "Oh, Master Cliegg, what has happened?" Those things meant they were inside, safely inside. She should have seen the green glow from the Dome lights long before. She should be seeing Cliegg's face as he carried her slowly down the long stairway. She blinked her eyes and tried to open them wider, but for all that, she remained in darkness.

Cliegg laid her gently in bed and sent the droid for water and the med kit. Shmi tried again to speak, but the effort was too much. When Cliegg withdrew his arms from around her, and with them, his warmth and his strength, she felt herself crumpling, falling, fading away.

Just before she slipped into unconsciousness, Anakin's face appeared to her, like in a dream.

"_Mom!"_ he called out. "_Mooooooom…."_

"_You're late," _she answered, inside a mind hazed with shock. "_You're late."_

"Storm's gettin' bad." The bartender in Mos Eisley's oldest cantina slid a mug down the bar towards him.

Anakin looked at it with revulsion. Mud beer. Aptly named. It was the last thing he wanted to drink, especially when he was sick to his stomach with worry, but he knew that it was meant as a gesture of honor and goodwill. Wherever he went, people bought him drinks. He never paid for anything.

"Thanks, Criff." He stared at the foamy stuff. No, he definitely could not handle that right now. He looked up into the iron-muscled bartender's beaming face. "But I think I need something hot right now. Is it all right if I pass this on to Owen?"

Criff shrugged expressively, making the tattoos on both shoulders writhe. "So'k. You want some java?"

"An infusion, if you have it." Anakin slid the mug to his left, where Owen grabbed hold of it and took a deep drink.

"You OK? You're not getting' sickly on us, are you?" Criff leaned forward and squinted into Anakin's face.

Anakin tried not to inhale. The man's breath would give even a Toydarian pause. "No, I just have a lot of work to do tonight," he lied. "I need my wits about me."

"Well, I'll see what I've got in the back. Not much call for herbs in this place."

Owen's shoulders shook with repressed laughter. If anyone else in this place dared to order an herbal infusion, he would have been beaten up for being either a Religious or just plain pathetic and tossed outside, sandstorm or no.

_Sandstorm._ Of all the miserable, frustrating, useless things to happen. Once the idea that something had happened at the farm – to his _mother – _had gotten into Anakin's head and lodged in his gut, he had dumped the ailing pirate at the med center and arranged to borrow an armored transport to take out to the farm right away, nighttime and the Tuskens be damned. But even those things wouldn't run in a sandstorm. Their treads would fill up and they'd get stuck, and by the time the storm was done you might find yourself buried ten feet under the surface. There was no way to communicate with the farm, either, not even with the comms. arrays they had in town. Not in a sandstorm.

Desperate to get home, Anakin went over and over the available options in his mind, but always came up short. There was no way. He'd have to wait out the storm here.

"Here ya go." Criff banged a steaming hot cup of ... something… down in front of him. Anakin sniffed it. Greenleaf and maybe jarrow, judging from the smell. Local stuff, not the expensive imported herbs. That would do. He lifted the cup and sipped gingerly, trying not to make a face.

"Thanks, Criff."

"No problem!" the burly bartender stood with his arms crossed, beaming at him, no doubt delighted that the famous Anakin Skywalker had opted to weather the sandstorm in his humble cantina. "So, what're you doin' in town?"

Anakin tried not to groan. It was going to be a long evening.

"Just passing through, Criff." He nodded toward Owen. "We're supposed to be out at the farm just now, but we got delayed."

"Yeah, I know. Found yourself a pirate, I heard."

Beside him, Owen took another deep drink of his mud beer, probably to keep from laughing. There were no secrets in Mos Eisley.

"Yeah."

Criff leaned closer. His tone grew conspiratorial. "Have anything good on him?"

"Enough," Anakin said shortly. "It'll hit the market tomorrow, if the storm lets up."

"Good deal," Criff grinned. He nodded over toward the far corner of the cantina. "We got some new buyers in town, I think. All the way from the Core, by the look of them."

"Really?" Anakin's interest perked up. He glanced at Owen, who nodded, picked up his mug, and casually wandered over in the direction Criff had indicated.

"Did you talk to them?"

"A bit."

"Politics?"

Criff frowned. "A bit," he said again. "But why're you interested in all that?"

"I'm interested in everything," Anakin said, which was fairly true. "Keeps me on my toes. Did they talk about the Separatists?"

"Well, as it happens, they did. Here and there."

"What's the news?"

Criff shook his head. "I don't get half of what they're talkin' about, and s'truth, I don't much care. I expect you'll get more if you talk to 'em yourself."

"I will."

He would too, but not now. Right now he had to find a way to get out of here.

_Visitors from the Core…_

A thought occurred to Anakin. A surprising thought, one that came out of nowhere, just when he had about given up trying to figure out a way to get to the farm.

"The Core, huh," he mused out loud. "What do you suppose they flew to get here?"

Criff looked puzzled. "I don't rightly know. But Solly said there's a couple of starships in the bay of a kind he's never seen before."

Starships. Small ones, the kind you could land with. Anakin's idea got bigger and solidified.

"Criff…" he began.

The bartender looked at him sideways. "Yeah?"

"Can I count on you to keep those guys from the Core busy and happy all night?" Anakin reached somewhere into his cloak and pulled out a small pile of metal that made the bartender's eyes pop.

"Oh, yeah…"

"And tell Owen that I had to go, and I'll see him tomorrow."

"Oh, yeah … " Criff repeated absently, still riveted by the sight of the metal. Then he came to. "Wait. There's a _sandstorm_ out there, you know."

"I know." Anakin smiled for the first time and nodded toward the metal. "Better put that away."

"Oh. Right." Hastily, Criff scooped the precious pile into a meaty hand and then made it disappear somewhere on his person. "If Owen asks, where do I say you've gone?"

"Home," Anakin said. "My Mom needs me."

Criff nodded knowingly and began polishing a mug with a ragged and not very clean cloth. "Right you are," he said. "Nothin' should get between a man and his mother."

_No one_ went out in a sandstorm. No one. And yet here Criff was, saying farewell to Anakin like he was about to take a stroll on a sunny day.

It just went to show. People seemed to think that he could do anything, they truly did.

Anakin hoped that this time, they were right. Taking a deep breath, he wrapped himself from head to foot in his heavy cloak and plunged out into the vicious storm, heading blindly but unerringly in the direction of the local docking bay.

When the proximity alarm went off, Cliegg woke with a start to find himself slumped uncomfortably in a chair next to the bed he shared with Shmi.

What in the hells had triggered the alarm? Had the raiders come back? It was unheard of that they would come so close to a dwelling, but nowadays it seemed that the stranger a thing was, the truer it was.

Quickly, he checked Shmi's pulse. It was faint, but steady. In the faint light of the glowlamps she looked waxy pale; the wound across her temple, black. The life signs kit he had hooked her up to showed that she was still alive, but the readouts didn't look good. She was deeply unconscious.

The protocol droid appeared in the doorway. "Master Cliegg…"

"Get to the viewscreens. Find out what set off the alarm," Cliegg ordered.

"Yes, Sir, but …"

"Get to it!"

"Yes Sir, that is, I already have, Sir, and it's just that…"

"Well?"

"It's Master Ani, Sir! He's outside, asking to be allowed in."

"Anakin? How did he get here?"

"I don't know, Sir. But the storm is very bad and he urgently wants to come inside."

"There's a storm?" Cliegg rubbed his tired eyes. He had been underground with Shmi since he'd brought her inside. He didn't know there was a storm.

"Well, let him in!" he barked.

"Yes, Sir!" The droid shuffled away.

"And make sure you lock down again as soon as he's inside!" Cliegg called after the thing.

"Of course, Sir," the droid's voice came faintly.

Cliegg got up to wash his face and hands in the adjoining fresher. When he emerged, he was startled to see Anakin already kneeling by the bed, holding his mother's hand. The boy had crept into their chamber without making a sound, and without waiting for an invitation.

"She stayed out too late, and went too far," Cliegg explained gruffly, not bothering with greetings. "The Tuskens came right up close. Three of 'em. They grabbed her, but I blasted a couple of them and they let go."

Anakin didn't answer, didn't even look at Cliegg.

"She was waiting for you, I guess."

Anakin lowered his head. "When did it happen?"

"Sunset. Just after." Cliegg's hands were dry, but he kept rubbing them together. "She was awake when I brought her inside. She couldn't see, though. I think she might be blind."

Anakin opened his eyes again. He didn't look at Cliegg. Only at his mother. Cliegg knew him well enough to see the tension in the curve of his shoulders, and the way his jaw was set.

"I'd like to be alone with her, if you don't mind."

"There's nothing you can do, son. She's out cold."

"I would still like to be alone with her," Anakin persisted, in a kind of clenched tone. "_If you don't mind."_

Cliegg didn't like the tone, but he let it go, given the circumstances and all. "Suit yourself. I'll get us a hot drink."

It irked Cliegg to be tossed out of his own room and away from his own wife's bedside. In fact, it irked him a lot, but he knew from long experience that you just didn't get between Shmi and Anakin. There was a bond between them that he didn't understand. He never had. He was close to his own son, Owen, sure. But it wasn't like it was with those two. It was almost like Shmi and Anakin had their own little world, that nobody else could share.

Anakin had been a trial in Cliegg's life with Shmi right from the start. He'd brought terrible events down on their heads that no one should ever have to live through. But Cliegg was smart enough to know that if it ever came down to a choice between Anakin and himself, he, Cliegg, would be the one left at the wayside, so he'd tried his best to get along with the strange boy and to keep the peace. It was the true price of having Shmi as his wife, it seemed. He had willingly paid it over and over again, because he couldn't imagine his life without her.

He'd been a lot happier since Anakin had left home and taken his mysterious doings elsewhere, though. Much happier.

If only Owen hadn't followed the boy on his damn fool crusades.

In the kitchen, Cliegg found himself looking around a little helplessly. Everything was orderly, gleaming, in its proper place. Problem was, he'd barely set foot in it since he'd married Shmi all those years ago. From the moment he had brought her to the farm, she had pampered him shamelessly. He couldn't remember the last time he'd made a meal or even so much as gotten himself a drink. It wasn't his way, it was hers; gratitude, he'd often thought, for her freedom. He'd argued about it at first, insisting there was no need, that he and young Owen were accustomed to taking care of themselves, but she'd always won, in that gentle way she had. "It makes me happy to take care of you, Cliegg," she'd say.

It did a man a powerful lot of good to be cared for that way.

Awkwardly, making a great effort not to disturb anything, Cliegg began opening cupboards and lockers until he found what he needed to brew a strong, spicy drink, extra sweet. The stars knew he needed one, and Anakin probably did, too.

She was so pale. Gently Anakin picked up Shmi's callused hand and held it to his cheek. It was cold. Cliegg had tucked blankets around her against shock, but it didn't seem to be helping. The wound looked clean enough, though. Like all those who lived out in the wastes, Cliegg was a good medic.

"Mom?" Anakin whispered, even though he knew she couldn't hear him. The med kit's monitor ticked steadily on by the bed, but felt without looking at it how faint her life signs were. He wondered what had caused the wound on her head. A blow? A blaster? Torn between anger and misery, he rubbed her hand between both of his, trying to warm it.

"_I'm so sorry, Mom. I should have been there. I should have known."_

It was his fault. She had been out on the ridge waiting for him, and he hadn't kept his promise to come well before sunset and stay the night. He hadn't been home – he still thought of the farm as home because she was there – for a long time. He'd been working so hard. There was so much to do. But she had been _waiting_ for him.

He wished he had done things differently. Made a different choice.

He wished he could turn back time.

_I wish, I wish, I wish…_

Cliegg was almost done with his drink when Anakin finally came to find him. He pushed the other mug toward the boy.

"It's cooled off by now. You want me to heat it up?"

Anakin shook his head. He looked exhausted.

Neither man said anything. Anakin cradled his mug in both hands, but didn't drink.

To fill the silence, Cliegg asked, "How is she?"

"Still the same."

Another silence. Cliegg tried again.

"How'd you get here, anyway? In a sandstorm?"

Something flickered behind the boy's eyes. Cliegg wasn't sure what.

"I borrowed a starship."

"A _starship_?"

"One of the small ones. Landed it out by the vaporators."

"A _starship_."

"Yeah, you know. They can pretty much fly through anything."

"Right." Cliegg scowled into his drink. "Owen didn't come with you?"

Anakin took a sip, made a face, and put it down. "He's still in town."

Cliegg sighed. He missed his son the way Shmi missed Anakin.

"You staying the night?"

Anakin nodded, and added quickly, "If that's all right."

"She'd like that. She'd like to see you when she wakes up."

They looked at one another long and silently, complicit in not speaking about what they both feared.

Cliegg stood up. "I'll get back to her, then."

Anakin stood, too. "Let me know if there's any change."

"I will."

They separated, each in a different direction.

The mugs remained on the table, making sticky rings.

Left to his own devices, and certainly unable to sleep, Anakin wandered around the farm's dwelling quarters for a while before his feet automatically, and inevitably, took him out to the garage.

During the siege years he had worked with Cliegg and Owen to tunnel out underground passages to all the different parts of the farm so that they could live and work without coming up to the surface too often. Underground, he couldn't hear the storm. The garage was so quiet he could practically hear himself think out loud. He stood for a long moment, looking around at the place he has spent so many years working, searching for solutions, and making things that he'd thought would better everyone's life. Some of them had, in a way, but they all had come with consequences – terrible consequences – that he had never anticipated, not in his wildest dreams.

Feeling shaky, he took a long, deep breath. This wasn't the way he had imagined his life unfolding. None of this was.

The workshop was tidy, and only a part of it – the part that Cliegg had reserved for himself – looked at all used. Anakin's things had been put away somewhere. He hadn't worked here since they'd set up the labs in the cave. He tried to remember what he had left behind. There had been so many projects, and so many of them had gone unfinished…

_Where is it? _ He remembered suddenly, sharply. _Where did Cliegg put it?_

He began to search systematically through crates and lockers, no longer interested in exploring the reminders of his childhood endeavors except for one. The one that had absorbed him and eluded him and defeated him from _that_ time to this.

It had to be here somewhere. Cliegg wouldn't have thrown it away… would he?

Anakin rummaged more and more desperately through boxes of tools, scraps of metal, bolts, bindings, chips and resistors, a hundred kinds of wire and crates of power sources. He ignored the open shelf full of dusty podracing trophies and moved on to crates of full of memory chips, specialized tools and adhesives, and finally found the one that contained the crystals.

"This is it," he muttered. "It has to be here." But it wasn't. It wasn't in the box of crystals. It wasn't anywhere, as far as he could see.

Anakin stepped back to survey the workshop. Maybe there was something – a corner, a crate he had missed? But there wasn't. He had gone through absolutely everything that wasn't directly on Cliegg's workbench. He eyed it. Would Cliegg have taken it? But why? Would he even know what it was, what it was trying to be? He hadn't told anyone about that project …

The dull gleam of the trophies caught his eye again, and suddenly, there it was, standing upright at the end of one of those shelves. He was right. Cliegg hadn't known what it was. He'd stood the dull metal tube on the shelf as if it were an old cup. Anakin crossed to the shelf and took the narrow cylinder into his hand almost reverently, gripped it like a sword handle, and swung it through the air as if the other end had grown a glowing green blade.

From the day the Jedi Council had summarily returned him to Tatooine, he had tried to build a lightsaber. He had never been allowed to hold one, much less see how it was constructed, but he had studied the hilts of Qui-Gon's and Obi-Wan's very carefully from a distance. He had watched them take their swords to hand; had seen the blades of pure light rise from the hilts instantly on the activation of a switch. Every fighting move he had seen them make was still emblazoned in his memory.

Many nights he had lain awake, trying to figure out how the swords of light were made. Somewhere along the way he had reasoned that they had to use crystals for energy, so he had taught himself everything he could about crystal technology. He had built hilt after hilt. Finally, he had constructed this one, which all of his logic and his painstakingly acquired knowledge told him should work. But it didn't.

He crouched in a swordsman's stance, holding the hilt with both hands, imagining its glowing green blade. He lunged. Leaped backward. Feinted. Played out the fight that was so vivid in his mind, the one he had dreamed about forever. His enemy was a Jedi. Any Jedi. All Jedi. A composite of all the ones who had torn away the life he wanted and sent him back to the one he didn't.

_You made a promise. _He swung the sword in a mighty arc.

_Then you took it back. _ His imaginary enemy took a mighty blow and reeled back. Anakin followed, leaping after him across the garage.

_You sent me away as if I was nothing. _In Anakin's mind, his sword cut a great arc in the air.

_But I'm a person. _Another blow to his enemy.

_My name is Anakin Skywalker... _Another leap, another great blow… this one he could practically feel …

… _and I was born to be a Jedi! _

Cliegg's workbench exploded in a great flash of light, sending Anakin reeling back in shock.

A great beam of blue light hummed in his hand.

_Blue? It's blue!_

The hilt he had constructed so painstakingly was vibrating in a subtle way that he somehow felt in every part of his body.

With his hand trembling more than the light vibration warranted, Anakin gingerly touched the glowing blade to a leg of the workbench that he had just destroyed. Sparks flew. He bore down, but it took barely any effort on his part for the heavy metal to fall into two pieces, cleanly sliced through.

He raised the blade and stood, shaking, the sword in his hand glowing incongruously in the garage of his childhood.

His thumb found the switch. He hesitated. What if he turned it off and couldn't re-ignite it?

He had to try. He just had to know. Could he make it happen again?

He switched it off, and then on again. Nothing happened.

_Come on,_ he urged. _Ignite. _He remembered the feeling of holding the glowing sword – the feeling that he had experienced through out his body. He remembered it, and willed it to recur.

The blade rose and sang to him like something alive.

That was the night when Anakin learned the difference between _wishing_ and _willing_.

That was the night when everything began to change.


	4. Chapter 3 The Gambit

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**Chapter 3. The Gambit**

Dorn Wieeder slept well and long, despite his semi-captivity in a strange place and on a hard pallet. When he woke, for once he remembered exactly where he was: _Skywalker's place. _The young man of the desert had made quite an impression.

He yawned and stretched comfortably. Skywalker's endless questions about the Separatist cause and the political state of the Galaxy made it a near certainty that it wouldn't be too difficult to establish a solid Separatist stronghold on the ratty little planet. These people, it seemed, were wide open to new ideas. Even though Dorn didn't know exactly what Skywalker's role was in this rough little society, he seemed to have some influence. It ought to be easy to recruit him to the cause.

There was no one around, so Dorn began exploring his surroundings. He found another cave-like chamber beyond the one in which he had slept, and a rather primitive sort of fresher, which he availed himself of with the stoicism of a man who had travelled a great deal, and not always to the finest places. Beyond that was a door, which… _Ah. _

The door wouldn't open.

Dorn frowned. He hadn't expected this after that Skywalker fellow's courtesy the night before. Surely it was a…

The door unexpectedly swung open, nearly taking Dorn's nose with it. _A side-hinged door?_ _How primitive! _

"Awake, then?" A cheerful, unapologetic man, dressed much as Skywalker had been the night before, stood in the opening.

"Awake, and luckily, unharmed," Dorn said sourly. "In fact, your timing is exceptional. I was just…"

"I know. Follow me, fella." The man looked to be of middle age, although looks were often deceiving in places where life was hard. His long graying hair was pulled back into a tail behind a thick neck and strong shoulders, and he had a blaster rifle slung across his back.

The armed man turned and walked quickly away, forcing Dorn to scurry in his wake.

"I meant to say, I was just wondering whether I could speak to Anakin Skywalker again …"

"He's gone," the man tossed back over his shoulder without slowing down.

"Gone? But I was led to believe … I mean, we had quite a long conversation yesterday, and I was sure…"

The man turned hard right into a long corridor, and kept his rather taxing pace.

"Perhaps I can wait for him, then?" Dorn suggested, trotting to keep up. "I'm sure he would want to… I mean, we had so many things …"

Ahead was a pre-fab room of some kind that looked like a small docking bay. When they were both inside, the man stopped and turned to face Dorn.

"Give me your hands."

"What?"

"Hold out your hands. Knuckles up."

Baffled, Dorn did as he was told. Before he'd figured out what was going on, the man had snapped binders on his wrists.

"Excuse me! I don't think you have the full picture here. I have an _understanding_ with Anakin Skywalker!"

"Sure you do," the man said, deftly blindfolding Dorn. "That's why you get to leave."

"But what are you…"

"Not _what_. _Where. _You're being dropped off in town. Anakin says that you're free to conduct your activities provided that you do him one service."

"A service?" Without the use of his eyes, Dorn was feeling very disoriented.

"He wants a meeting with that Dooku guy."

"What? Look, Anakin… Mr. Skywalker… may have misappreciated my role. I'm part of Count Dooku's organization, certainly. But it's not as though I'm on any kind of personal terms with the noble Count of Serenno. I'm just one of many…"

"That's the condition." Dorn heard a powered door creak open. The man grasped his arm and guided him, stumbling, into something that had a seat. Transport of some kind, no doubt. "You're free to move around and do your business. But if the meeting hasn't been fixed and confirmed by the end of one standard week, you're off the planet. End of discussion."

An engine powered up. The seat began to vibrate.

"But… how will I communicate with Skywalker?" Dorn said desperately. "How will I find him?"

"He'll find you!" the man yelled over the engine's whine. Who-or-whatever was piloting the whatever-it-was hit the throttle, and Dorn was once again mashed against the back of a seat in some miserable transport on yet another miserable planet. Sometimes it made a man wonder about his choice of careers. Here he'd assessed Skywalker as a fine potential worker on behalf of the Cause, someone whom he, Dorn, could enlighten and then guide and direct. Instead, this Skywalke_r_ was ordering him about and setting ridiculous conditions.

He had no idea how he was going to set up the meeting Skywalker wanted, or even whether such a thing would be possible.

And, to add insult to injury, they hadn't even offered him breakfast.

Cliegg awoke stiff all over from having slept slumped in the old chair again.

_Shmi! _ he thought instantly, cursing himself for having fallen asleep at all. The medkit's monitor was still ticking away in a faint monotone. She was alive. But she was as pale as she had been during the night, and the monitor didn't register any change in her condition. He stroked her cool, dry forehead, carefully replenished the fluids she was being given via the medkit, and took himself off to the fresher for a wash and a change of clothes. That done, he padded off to find Anakin, to report on his mother's condition.

Some time later he was still looking for the boy. None of the beds had been slept in. He wasn't in the kitchen, the atrium, or any of the dwelling's living spaces. The farm's security shield hadn't been deactivated. Even that pesky house droid that Anakin had built for Shmi, from which she would not be parted despite Cliegg's pleading, was nowhere to be seen.

Where was the damn boy, anyway?

_Oh. _Of course. There was only one place he _would _be. Glancing longingly into the kitchen, where breakfast usually awaited him by the time he was up and washed, Cliegg stoically passed by it and headed through the tunnel into the garage.

The scene there put him instantly into a bad mood. His pride and joy, the workshop that he had only been able to tidy up and make his own after Anakin had found other places to do whatever it was he did, was in shambles. Cliegg's own special workspace, which he always treated with care, looked like a high wind had blown through it. Hell, even his workbench was in pieces. And for some reason, the protocol droid was right in the middle of the mess, picking through _his _things – his tools, supplies, and projects…

"WHAT IS GOING ON IN HERE?" Cliegg bellowed.

"Oh, Master Cliegg. I do apologize for the mess. Master Anakin had an accident here last night…"

"An _accident_ ? What kind of an accident?"

"I'm afraid I don't know, Sir. He has asked me to restore everything to its exact prior place and condition. I am to put the broken objects aside so that he can repair or replace them."

An accident. What was Anakin doing in here using his tools anyway, and without so much as having asked permission? He had his own. He could have unpacked them and used those …

"Where is he?" Cliegg snarled. "Where is Anakin?"

"I don't know, Sir. He was here not long ago." The droid sounded worried. Cliegg took no notice. It always sounded worried.

"That really tears it," he muttered, and headed straight back through the tunnel to the main dwelling space.

He was crossing the atrium when the proximity alarm sounded. Because the droid was in the garage, he checked the security screen himself.

It was Owen. Cliegg's mood immediately brightened as he turned off the perimeter shields to let him in. The storm was already over, and the day promised to be hot and clear.

"Hello, Dad. Whose starship is that out by the vaporators?"

Cliegg rolled his eyes in a way that could mean only one thing.

"Anakin's? So he _is_ here, then. He ditched me at the cantina last night without so much as a word…

"Owen…"

" … wait, where did Anakin get a starship?"

"Son." Cliegg put a restraining hand on the young man's shoulder. "Shmi's been hurt."

"Oh, no!" Owen sobered instantly. "Is it bad?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Can I see her?" Owen had been fond of Shmi from the moment Cliegg had brought her home. Shed always had a tender touch with him, and had spoiled him as she had spoiled Cliegg.

"She's not conscious."

"What happened?"

"Maybe we should get some breakfast while I tell you all about it," Cliegg urged. Still stinging with annoyance about Anakin's destruction of the garage, he yearned for a sensible conversation with a sympathetic ear.

"But Shmi…"

"The medkit will signal if there's a change."

Owen laid his arm over his father's shoulders and gave them a comforting squeeze. "Sure."

Even that small gesture of sympathy brought a suspicious film of dampness to Cliegg's eyes. "It's good to see you, son," he growled, feeling suddenly less alone.

Between the two of them, father and son managed to put together a meal, which they shared at the large old table next to the previous night's unwashed mugs. Cliegg described the Tusken's attack and Anakin's unexpected arrival. Owen talked about the people from the Core he'd met in the cantina during the storm, and the political news they had brought. Neither one mentioned the plausible link between the appearance of the strangers from the Core and Anakin's sudden acquisition of a starship. Conversations like that just got testy, because to Cliegg's undying disappointment, where Anakin went, Owen invariably followed. Father and son had long since discovered that avoiding detailed conversations about Anakin and his doings made them both much happier.

"Where is Anakin, anyway?" Owen asked finally.

"I don't rightly know. He spent the night in the garage, but I haven't seen him this morning." Cliegg was about to regale Owen with the tale of the disaster in his workshop when the medkit alarm sounded. Practically tumbling over one another, the men sprinted to Owen and Shmi's bedchamber, only to stop dead at the entrance.

Anakin was there, kneeling on the floor by the bed, cupping both of Shmi's hands in his. Somehow he must have slipped in while Cliegg was looking for him. Anakin's head was lowered and his eyes were closed. He was so still that he barely seemed to be breathing. He gave no indication of even noticing the persistent alarm from the medkit. Cliegg crept inside the room to turn it off. Coming closer, he saw the change in Shmi that had triggered it.

There was color in her face. Not a lot, but the frightening pallor was gone. Cliegg checked the readouts. Her vital signs were stronger. He hovered uncertainly, torn between his hesitation to disturb a scene that looked intensely private, and his need to touch Shmi, to confirm what he saw.

Shmi moved a little and murmured something, breaking the spell. Cliegg's rough fingers flew to stroke her cheek. It was warm.

Anakin released Shmi's hands and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms.

"She's better," Cliegg whispered.

Anakin nodded. He looked worn out. Despite everything, Cliegg felt a tug of sympathy for him.

Shmi took a deep breath and said, waveringly, "Ani?"

"I'm here, Mom."

"Oh, Ani."

The boy took her hand again. "How are you feeling?"

Shmi's eyelids fluttered open. She blinked several times and looked faintly puzzled. "I can't see. I don't think I can see."

"It's all right, Mom." Anakin sounded as fragile as Shmi did. "It will be all right."

"Here," Cliegg took over. "Let me have a look." Anakin finally stood up and moved out of the way.

Cliegg probed and tested Shmi for a while, ignoring the sporadic murmurs of conversation between the brothers.

"Well," he said finally, holding his wife's hands as Anakin had done moments before. "It might just be temporary. All we can do is get that wound healed and get you stronger. If it doesn't improve, we'll take you to the med center."

Shmi nodded faintly.

Anakin leaned closer. "Mom, I have to go. I have to return the… I have to return something. But I'll be back."

Cliegg and Owen exchanged a knowing glance.

"I love you, Ani…"

Anakin leaned down to kiss her tenderly. "It will get better," he murmured. "I promise."

_Like you promised to get here early last night? _ Cliegg wondered, but as usual, he kept his thoughts to himself.

"See you," Anakin said to the Lars men, and disappeared out the door.

_What about my workshop? _Cliegg wanted to call out after him.

But he didn't.

If it takes audacity to "borrow" someone else's starship at night during a sandstorm, it takes twice as much to return it in broad daylight to a public docking bay in a in a busy town. Sure enough, as soon as the ship was spotted overhead, word began to pass. By the time Anakin had powered down the engines, a crowd had gathered in the bay. Two among them were the outraged owners of the ship. The rest were there for the entertainment.

"Morning," Anakin said courteously to the group, most of whom he knew. He was wiping his hands on a grungy cloth as he descended the short gangplank.

"I'm going to have you arrested!" A tall stranger, a human, stepped in front of Anakin. Even though the unfamiliar person was dressed in nondescript clothing, he was instantly recognizable as a well-to-do offworlder. No one on Tatooine had quite such pampered skin, or such clean fingernails, or such unthinking faith in any kind of law.

"Is she yours?" Anakin asked, indicating the ship with his head.

"Damn right, she's mine, you thief!"

"Nice ship. She's in good shape. The retro thruster braking system was a little rough, though." He held out the cloth. "I tuned up the throttle assembly for you. It needed a new motivator."

The offworlder looked at the cloth, which indeed contained a worn out motivator, with blank incomprehension.

"No charge," Anakin said agreeably. "It's the least I could do."

The offworlder recovered enough to snarl, "You can go to prison for theft, that's what you can do!"

Anakin rocked back on his heels and cocked his head quizzically.

"Why, are you missing a ship?"

"No…"

"Well, then. Here you go." Anakin pressed the grimy cloth, worn part and all, into the astonished man's hand. "Thanks." He nodded to his amused audience, and started to walk past them.

"You're going to pay!" the outraged offworlder yelled.

The crowd watched Anakin with interest and anticipation as he stopped and turned to face his accuser.

"Did I stop you from going anywhere last night?"

"No…"

Anakin shrugged. "No harm done, then."

The offworlder's mouth fell open. The crowd guffawed.

The other stranger, shorter and stockier than the first, but just as well groomed, stepped up. "Not so fast. You don't go joyriding in my ship and get away with it!"

I thought it was his ship?" Anakin said peaceably, indicating the first stranger.

"Same thing." The second man, who seemed to have a nastier temper, pushed his face up close to Anakin's, as if his glare could make up for his lack of height.

"So what exactly do you want from me?" Anakin asked mildly.

The stranger hesitated just long enough to cast doubt about his follow-through. Anakin turned away again. The argument probably wouldn't have gone any further if a few troublemakers in the crowd hadn't snorted derisively.

The second man punched Anakin on the shoulder from behind. Looking more weary than angry, Anakin stopped walking again.

Discretely, a few individuals from the back of the crowd began to move forward. One of them was the man who, earlier in the day, had sent Dorn on his way from the cave. The hand that hung casually by his side gripped a blaster.

"Tell me," Anakin asked levelly, without turning around. "Are you just passing through, or looking to buy?"

The taller man, who had stood by while his companion harassed Anakin, looked up sharply.

"What do you mean?"

"The farmer's market," Anakin said cryptically, still not turning around.

Everyone in the crowd knew what he meant. In fact, a lot of people throughout the Galaxy – the ones whose reputations weren't necessarily official, say, or whose businesses, such as they were, weren't registered in any system, and who absolutely did not pay the Trade Federation for anything – _those_ people knew about the so-called 'Farmer's Markets' on certain Outer Rim planets.

So, it turned out, did the two strangers from the Core.

The angrier of the two men scowled. "_You're _the one?"

"I am," Anakin sighed, almost sounding as though he wished he weren't.

The first stranger looked around the crowd furtively, suddenly conscious that his clandestine business was being exposed. His stocky partner also looked a little uncomfortable.

"Remy ..." Anakin called out to the man in the crowd who was carrying the blaster. "You want to show these people around?"

By the time Remy stepped forward, his weapon was no longer visible. "Will do, boss."

"You're the boss?" The stocky man looked like maybe his collar didn't fit so well.

"Wait outside," Remy ordered the visitors. "Be right with you."

They went. The show disappointingly over, most of the crowd followed.

The powerfully built desert man sidled closer to Anakin. "I don't like those two," he murmured. "They look too clean. I'm thinking maybe they're military."

"Any idea why they're out here?" No one from the wealthy star systems had ever bothered with the Outer Rim's lucrative black market before. Not to Anakin's recollection, anyway.

"Not yet."

Anakin grinned lopsidedly. He liked Remy's attitude. "Well, watch your back. Get somebody to backtrack whatever they're using for money. Find out what you can."

Remy nodded and had turned to leave when Anakin touched his sleeve.

"What about the Thirlian?"

"I cut 'im loose, like you said. Last I heard he was at the Cantina, tellin' everybody who would listen about some cause or other. Political stuff." Like most Outer Rimmers, Remy had no interest in Galactic politics.

"Just make sure he's followed. I want to know everybody he talks to, and every communication he makes off planet."

"Consider it done."

Anakin rubbed the back of his neck, trying to work the kinks out of it. "Remy?"

"Yeah?"

"Take over for me today, would you? I need to get back to the farm, and Owen's not coming back into town today.

"Sure." The man called Remy paused. "Owen's not going with you?"

Anakin just shrugged.

"You're traveling alone?" Remy had been by Anakin's side since the gangster wars. He didn't approve of Anakin going anywhere alone, as a matter of principle."

"It's daytime. It's fine."

"Huh."

Watching Remy's strong back retreating, Anakin thought that maybe it was past time to hand the whole black market business permanently over to someone else. Someone like Remy. He'd do well. There were other things that needed Anakin's attention, bigger things.

His thoughts turned to the problems awaiting him back at the cave. They'd have to outfit it with a better comm. array, and soon. And shore up its perimeter defenses. The secret wouldn't hold much longer, and the labs had to be protected. And there was still the open question of finding the best way to market the condenser technology. If they were finally going to venture into legitimate business offworld, Tatooine would have to move out of the dark times and join the rest of the Galaxy technologically…

Sh'spit, he was tired. And he needed to get back to his mother.

Wondering whose speeder he could legitimately borrow to get back to the farm, he gave the trim starship one last, longing look.

By the time he had stumbled back out of the hangar into the harsh morning light, an armored transport was waiting outside, its engines rumbling. Remy climbed out.

Anakin managed a faint grin. "Isn't that overkill for one person?"

"Not if I can't come with you," Remy said. "Get in. And take the long way. Keep away from the ridges. There's a blaster under the seat."

"You win." Anakin surrendered without a fight. Remy had been looking out for him and Owen since they were boys. "Thank you."

Remy nodded and walked away, leaving Anakin confident that he didn't have to waste another thought on the 'Farmer's Market,' which was already filling up the hangar, the narrow streets and the cantinas with shifty-looking offworlders. Remy would take care of everything.

It felt good to speed off into the wastes by himself. The barren landscape, empty and beautiful, allowed the incessant pounding of his thoughts to dissolve into something quieter; a boundless moment of mere _being._ It was a feeling he often sought, but rarely achieved: … _open … calm … centered. _

Time seemed to fold into itself, and before he knew it, the farm's domes appeared in the distance and he was home – or what passed for it. Given Cliegg's endless disapproval of him, despite the relative prosperity and comfort Anakin's activities had finally brought to the family, it was really only Shmi who kept him coming back.

_Mom. _Long before he brought the heavy transporter to sand-spewing halt by the main dome, Anakin was already with her in his thoughts. Somewhere deep down inside he felt her faint, warm embrace in return.

At the end of a single lousy day spent on his own on the backward desert planet, even in what passed for civilization in that place – an execrable town called Mos Eisley – Dorn Wieeder was seriously re-evaluating his reasons for being there.

No one, but no one he had talked to during that long, hot, dusty day seemed the slightest bit interested in the politics of the Galaxy. In fact, that was the problem – to the people he had tried to engage in discussion, whether in taverns or workshops or on the street, the rest of the Galaxy was a place far, far away that had little to do with them. The scattered Outer Rim planets had no representation in the Senate. Most of the locals didn't even use Galactic Credits, seeming to rely on precious metals and barter for their currency instead. While Dorn had come prepared for that (surprisingly, the pirates had left his modest personal supply of auridium untouched) he had been unprepared for the inherent illogic in trying to persuade people to separate from something they didn't feel a part of in the first place.

What _was _he doing here? How had the Count of Serenno, the great voice of the Separatist movement, imagined that his message would be heard, much less, find a response in these remote places? Why did he think it was worth sending operatives like Dorn to ungoverned, and most likely, ungovernable territories like this one, anyway?

Dorn looked morosely into the unappealing mug of the 'mudbeer' that seemed to be the main alcoholic drink around these parts. Awful stuff. He took another long swig and nearly gagged, but the resulting heat in his veins was welcome. He needed to mellow out. It had been a rotten day all around.

The cantina doors flew open. Two merchants entered and drifted past Dorn to the bar, nodding to him in passing. They remembered him - he had spoken to them earlier in the day in the market. In fact, it felt as though he had spoken to most of the ragged souls in the crude town, and none of them had wanted to hear his message.

A lively conversation kicked up at the end of the bar where the merchants had joined a few others. Dorn took another drink, wondering vaguely what it was about. Gossip, probably. The locals certainly did like their scuttlebutt. As far as Dorn could tell, that was all that people ever talked about: each other.

Dorn stared into his evil-looking brew, straining to listening to the conversation at the bar. Predictably enough, it sounded like dull stuff. Something about a farmer's market. Idly, Dorn wondered what farmers on a desert planet could possibly grow that would require a farmer's market for distribution. Surely most foodstuffs had to be imported…

His thoughts stopped wandering when the bar conversation quieted to a murmur, making it harder to eavesdrop. The only words he could distinguish were …"Anakin" and "offworld scum…"

Evidently they were gossiping about Skywalker. Convinced that the only worthwhile gossip was the kind that required lowered voices, Dorn stood up and made his way to the bar.

"Any chance I can buy you gentlemen a round?" he asked genially. "Stranger though I am, I hate to drink alone."

"Sure," somebody said. "Why not?"

All together four rough-looking men were huddled together at the end of the bar. At the offer of a free round, a fifth quickly sidled up from somewhere behind them, trying to look as if he'd been there all along. Dorn pretended he hadn't noticed and paid for five drinks.

"To your good health," Dorn proposed, when all the men had been served, "and to good business all around." They each drank deeply, Dorn trying hard not to splutter. The mud beer quickly did its work, and soon Dorn found himself saying, with little caution and less strategy, "So, my new friends, what can you tell me about this Anakin Skywalker fellow?"

It was amazing how cold the atmosphere suddenly became, mud beer or no.

"What's it to you?" someone growled. At the periphery of his vision, Dorn saw the bartender draw closer.

"I had the most fascinating discussion with him yesterday," Dorn said quickly. "Such an interesting fellow. So knowledgeable. Such a deep interest in Galactic politics…" and he was off, delivering his message as if for the first time, full of passion and discovery and philosophical certitude…

Two rounds later (or was it three? He was a little fuzzy on the details), Dorn could see that his discourse hadn't borne any real fruit. The locals were as stupefied by his arguments as ever. It had, however, served to save his skin, and even to draw him into their circle a little. For when he finally stopped to draw breath, the bartender had backed off and the talk quickly drifted back to Skywalker. Despite, or more likely, because of his growing inebriation, Dorn had the good sense to shut up and listen.

What he heard were stories of triumph in the midst of unbelievable odds; of sudden shifts in fortune that in hindsight, seemed almost magical. A human podracer. A young boy singlehandedly raising the populace against their oppressors and winning. An entire planet saved from subsequent starvation by sheer nerve and cunning. They were tall tales, these stories, and all of them revolved around that one young man.

"Such remarkable tales," Dorn murmured. "I had no idea a single human could … accomplish … so much."

"Yeah, well," one of the farmers said with visible pride, "he's somethin' all right, our Anakin." He leaned closer to Dorn, with a light in his eyes as if he was about to deliver the _coup de grace_. "You know, before he came back and did all those things, he was a Jedi_. "_

_A Jedi. _The revelation had its desired effect, astonishing even Dorn. Ex-Jedi weren't something you saw every day. He had never even heard of one until he had become engrossed with the Separatist movement…

The mud beer seemed to have lubricated his brain a little. Something was starting to make sense. He hadn't thought anything of it at first, having had no prior experience with mentality of those who inhabited Galactic outposts, but under the circumstances, Skywalker's interest in the Separatist cause seemed quite – Dorn searched for the word that would clarify his impressions – disproportionate. Sure, everything he had learned about the man seemed outsized and far-fetched. Dorn knew enough about the evolution of local legends to take everything he had heard and divide by twelve. But by any standards, young Skywalker's career already had been remarkable. And if he _had _been a Jedi for some time before returning home to take on the local slaveholders and gangsters…

Dorn finally connected the dots, seeing not only why Skywalker might have such an intense interest in the Count of Serenno, but also how a lowly operative like himself, one of millions, could just possibly craft a message that might actually come to Dooku's attention. It was a long shot, but still – _if _he succeeded in setting up the meeting that Skywalker had demanded, he might not only avoid the dishonor of failing in his appointed task on this rotten desert planet, but might even come to the personal attention of the Count himself. Not a bad prospect for a man who was as interested in advancement as in the philosophical underpinnings of the movement he represented.

Not bad at all for a day's work.

With his mood brightened considerably, Dorn Wieeder finished his beer (not so bad, actually, once you got used to it) and stumbled out of the cantina to search for a functioning comm. center.


	5. Chapter 4 Old Friends

**Chapter 4. Old Friends**

Far away from the local concerns of the desert planet Tatooine, a Galactic Senator with the weight of worlds on her shoulders and a death threat hanging over her head had just about reached the limits of her patience.

After a violent attempt on her life that had resulted in the deaths of several loyal friends and staff, among them her beloved Handmaiden Corde, Padmé Naberrie, aka Amidala of Naboo, had sought the aid of the Supreme Chancellor himself in finding the culprit. Accompanied by members of the Loyalist Committee, she had arrived at the meeting expecting the Chancellor's full support for her request for an investigation into the attack. Instead, his response had been to wrap her up in a cocoon of protection and to restrict her movements until the danger had passed. And he had an office full of yea-saying Jedi willing to support his plan.

"Senator Amidala, in grave danger, are you. "

Amidala looked down into the little green Jedi's eyes and fumed silently. She didn't want Jedi protection. She wanted Corde's killer caught and punished. She wanted to know who wanted her dead.

It didn't escape Padmé's notice that the Supreme Chancellor spent most of the meeting looking out the window, avoiding her arguments, and letting the Jedi do all the talking. When Bail Organa stepped up to protest on her behalf, he too was brushed aside.

Suddenly, the Supreme Chancellor suddenly turned away from the window and threw his full weight behind the plan to protect her. "Do it for me, My Lady…"

Padmé choked down bile. Together, Palpatine and the Jedi presented a seamless front. Padmé's instincts told her that something else had been under discussion before the Loyalist Committee had been admitted to the room – something that concerned the Supreme Chancellor and the Jedi enough to insist on binding her hand and foot under the guise of protection. _But what?_

"… perhaps an old friend … Master Kenobi …" the Supreme Chancellor persisted, after drowning her protests in outrageous flattery.

_Kenobi? _Padmé searched back in her memory, nearly ten years back, to a time and a place when her world had been both simpler and harder – simpler, because she had been young and inexperienced, and harder because the grave challenges she had faced on behalf of Naboo had been her first. Come to think of it, the Jedi had been sent to "help" her then, too. Despite the ultimate outcome, Padmé had long harbored the suspicion that the Jedi presence had only served to make a bad situation worse.

And here they were again. "Helping." As deaf to her wishes as the Supreme Chancellor had been, the self-styled Guardians of 'Peace' and 'Justice' were already assigning her a Jedi protector.

" ... I will send Obi-Wan to you, My Lady…" the one called Windu was saying in the most irritatingly patronizing tone.

It seemed they had made up their minds. The Jedi had not given her a choice, then or now.

_Kenobi._ Padmé strained to remember his face. A young Jedi. Pale. Spiky-haired. Quiet. He had tended to remain in the shadow of his Master. Her most vivid memory of him was the stormy grief in his eyes after the violent death of the unbending, imperious Qui-Gon Jinn, who had dragged her to Tatooine and picked up that little boy….

Padmé sighed inwardly. She was older this time. Wiser. Her world was more complex, and yet in many ways, because of her years of experience, simpler. She was not ready to submit. She _would not_ submit.

But she had no qualms about appearing as if she would.

"Thank you, Master Windu." Padmé used her tempered voice – her flat, uninflected, official voice – the one that served as her mask, now that she served Naboo without one. Without further discussion or false pleasantries, She swept out of the Chancellor's office with the rest of the Loyalists trailing limply behind her.

_Obi-Wan Kenobi_. She remembered him at the celebration of Naboo's liberation, standing side by side with the freshly scrubbed and shorn boy, who had smiled happily at her across the dais. Her fury softened a little at the memory. At least the little boy's dreams of becoming a Jedi had come true. That was something.

She tried to imagine the heroic young boy (Anakin, his name was - unlike Kenobi, she had never forgotten him) grown up into a Jedi like the rest. The idea almost made her smile. It was very had to picture that sweet, willing boy so arrogant and self-righteous. Kenobi, on the other hand…

"He seemed very concerned about you," Bail Organa said once they had put several corridors between themselves and the Supreme Chancellor's office.

"Who? Palpatine? Do you think so?" Padmé murmured neutrally, wondering whether Bail had been taken in by all that protection nonsense.

"Even the Jedi seemed to think that the danger to you is great."

"Oh, please. Someone tried to kill me because they wanted me out of the way. Now, with all of this added protection, that is exactly where I will be – out of the way – at least for the vote on the creation of the Grand Army, and who knows how much longer after that. Doesn't that strike you as a little strange?"

Bail looked at her as if he didn't know how to respond. "Do you really think that the Jedi will suggest that you leave Coruscant?" he finally asked with his usual caution. "I imagined that they will simply provide you with a bodyguard while you go about your normal business."

"You haven't had many dealings with the Jedi, have you, Bail?"

The Senator to the Alderaan System smiled a little sheepishly. "I suppose not."

"Just watch," Padmé said firmly. "They will try to yank me away from Coruscant and from my work in the Senate without the slightest regard for my obligations or preferences."

Bail glanced at her sideways. "They will _try_ to? I admit that I haven't had many dealings with the Jedi, but I do believe that they tend to succeed in their missions more often than not."

"I won't go without a fight."

"Padmé," Bail said soberly, "I agree with the Supreme Chancellor here. I couldn't bear it if something happened to you."

"Could you bear the destruction of the Republic, Bail? Could you bear civil war?"

They had arrived at Padmé's suite of offices without Padmé realizing that the others in their party had long since gone their own ways. She and her loyal colleague and friend were alone in the spacious corridor. Bail stopped walking and studied her with a bemused expression.

"With all due respect, Padmé ... without wanting in the least to understate your influence in the Senate ... I hardly think that your absence from the vote will be decisive. We have a great many supporters."

Padmé sighed. "I don't mean to exaggerate my own importance, Bail. You know that. But you can't deny that I was the target of an assassination attempt. That must mean something, even if I don't fully understand the reason for it."

"Of course." Bail was quick with his contrition. "I don't mean to belittle what you have been through. But in that light, doesn't Jedi protection make the most sense after all?"

"I thought you were on my side," Padmé sulked.

"Always."

They said their farewells and Padmé reluctantly entered her suite of Senate offices, which as usual lately, was buzzing with activity. Staff members were squeezed in everywhere, preparing for the coming vote. Only a few days left, and there were still many hundreds of Senators to contact. Padmé warded off all greetings and questions, and barricaded herself in her private office. She wanted to think.

_Kenobi,_ she mused, wondering just how onerous his security measures would be, and to what extent they would obstruct her ability to do her job. Hopefully Obi-Wan Kenobi had grown into a reasonable man, because Jedi or no, she intended to find out who had ordered the attack on her. Despite the Jedi's protestations, Padmé was still convinced that it was the charismatic leader of the Separatists, Count Dooku, who had signed her death warrant. She couldn't rest until she knew why.

It occurred to her that her unwanted Jedi protector, whom the Chancellor had referred to as her "old friend," would surely bring news of how her _true_ young friend from Tatooine had fared in his new life. Perhaps she would even get to see Anakin again – hadn't Kenobi taken the boy on as his Padawan? A real smile tugged briefly at her lips, but then it faded just as quickly under the pressures of the moment.

No, she didn't want protection. She wanted _justice_. If the Chancellor wouldn't deliver it, and if the Jedi did nothing but try to hinder her, she would simply have to find another way.

x

"A difficult assignment for Obi Wan, this will be."

Mace Windu could barely make out Yoda's words because they were being blown away into the teeming traffic lanes high above Coruscant's endless sea of buildings. As usual, Yoda had insisted that the transport's protective barrier be removed for the short journey back to the Temple, so that he could hang out the side at an angle so precarious that, had it been anyone else, Mace would have felt the need for a rescue. He liked the air in his face, Yoda once had explained.

He seemed to like it quite a lot. He was grinning like a Youngling.

It did, however, make conversation exceptionally difficult. Mace sighed and sharpened his hearing, knowing that, had _he_ been anyone else, Yoda would have made the concession of coming back inside before trying to converse.

"He is the only one available," Mace called out, trying to make himself heard over the wind. "We are over-committed as it is."

"Difficult, nonetheless," Yoda commented to the streams of traffic.

"He will do what he must."

"That he will. I speak not of the action of the Jedi, but of the heart of the man."

"What do you suggest I do, Master Yoda? Find someone else? There is no one. Or should I take the assignment myself, leaving all of my other duties to you and to the other members of the Council while I protect one single Senator?"

There was a flutter of robes and a brief struggle with a gimer stick, and Master Yoda once again sat beside Mace, looking a little windblown, but no longer smiling. His eyes locked onto Mace's.

"What, think you, is best?"

"Kenobi must take the assignment," Mace insisted without hesitation. "If he still hasn't accepted fully our decision of ten years ago, then it is well that he has the opportunity to come to terms with it at last. The darkness is growing. We haven't much time. We need him with us wholeheartedly."

"Believe, you do, that Obi-Wan will find his peace with our decision?"

Mace thought about it for a while. "Sometimes I think that he is the truest of us all. If Obi-Wan Kenobi cannot withstand the doubts and the suffering that the Dark Side brings, what hope is there for the rest of us?"

Yoda turned away from Mace to stare outside. The silence was very long, and his ears were very flat.

"So be it," he agreed at last.

Mace sighed and leaned back against the hard seat.

With nothing left that needed saying, the small Jedi Master once again wriggled around to stick his head and shoulders out of the transport. With his face to the wind and his arms flying free, he looked as if he hadn't a care in the world.

Mace wondered whether he shouldn't try it too, one day. It would be nice to feel that way, if only for a moment.

x

Obi-Wan Kenobi was told of his urgent new assignment before he had shaken the dust of Ansion out of his robes. Caught off guard, for a moment he teetered over a very private abyss.

_Why me? Why, by the great beating heart of the Galaxy, does it have to be me?_

He caught himself, of course; so quickly and smoothly that barely a ripple of emotion showed in his demeanor. The bearer of the message and the briefing materials, an older Padawan, gave no indication of having noticed any undue emotion. Obi-Wan thanked him courteously for the errand.

"It is quite urgent," the Padawan reiterated. "You are to go at once."

"I understand."

Even so, when the door to his private chamber whispered shut, Obi-Wan stood motionless in the shaft of sunlight that poured in from a single high window overhead.

_Ten years. _Had it already been ten years since Qui-Gon Jinn's death on Naboo? And only a little less than that since he had broken his sacred promise to train the boy?

_It is quite urgent. _ _You are to go at once._

Obi-Wan was nothing if not obedient, but still he remained where he was. [i]_Prepare yourself slowly when you are in haste[/i], _Master Yoda always said. Regardless of the urgency, he could not face this assignment unless he was fully prepared.

He closed his eyes. Standing there in the soft morning light in the privacy of the only personal space he had ever known, Obi-Wan took a deep breath and allowed the pain of the all the old wounds to find expression. Old grief flowed through his blood and nerves, filling his heart until he thought it would burst. The guilt that he had borne for so many years without relief or solace rose up sharply, bitterer than tears. He allowed them both to flood him until he felt as if he could not endure the suffering for another moment; but he did bear it, and finally the ache, having nowhere else to go, subsided again, seeping, it seemed, out of his body through his limbs, down into the floor and away, leaving him empty and quiet again.

_For now._

Obi-Wan opened his eyes. Nothing had changed. The room was as silent as ever; the airy light, as soft. Only the hand that held the chip containing the briefing materials trembled slightly. Obi-Wan breathed deeply to calm it. The trembling would pass. The important thing was that his mind and heart were once again clear. After another cleansing breath or two, he retreated to the fresher and stuck his whole head under a stream of ice-cold running water.

Only when he was fully refreshed and clean did Obi-Wan begin to make haste. He absorbed the data on the self-destructing data chip on the way to the Senator's residence. By the time he arrived at her door he was fully composed, thoroughly briefed, and ready to serve.

He was, after all, Jedi.

x

"Senator Amidala."

Padmé stared blankly at the Jedi who bowed graciously to her, not recognizing him at first. Jar-Jar had announced him as...

He raised his head and there they were, the gray eyes she remembered so well, in a face that was only vaguely familiar. The unassuming young Jedi of long ago had vanished. It wasn't only the longer hair and the beard that had changed. The man who stood before her had a distinct presence. Without putting himself forward, he somehow filled the room.

_He has grown up, _she thought.

"It is a great pleasure to see you again, My Lady."

"It has been far too long," Padmé agreed quickly, surprised at the genuine warmth in his voice.

Warmth notwithstanding, Kenobi didn't waste any time with further pleasantries. "I understand that you are concerned about having an extra layer of security, Senator. I assure you that my presence will be invisible."

_We'll see about that. _Padmé was trying to move toward the large sofas when her omnipresent shadow, savior and the current bane of her existence stepped away from the margin of the room to introduce himself.

"I'm Captain Typho of her majesty's Security force. Queen Jamillia has been informed of your presence."

Kenobi looked around at the large room. "I thought that the Senator would have more attendants. Particularly after the attack."

"I am no longer Queen, Master Kenobi, but a mere Senator. I don't need..."

"She dismissed them," Typho interrupted tersely. "She usually has several bodyguards in attendance, but after Corde was killed, she sent them away.

"_What?"_

"Master Kenobi, I prefer to...

"She doesn't want anyone else to get hurt on her behalf," Typho cut her off again as if she wasn't there. Padmé shot a hard glance at her overzealous Security Chief, but he was busy pleading his case to the Jedi. She felt like kicking him.

"That is unacceptable. The Senator will need round the clock protection."

Typho looked happier than he had in days. "I'm very glad that you're here, Master Kenobi. The situation is more dangerous than the Senator will admit."

That was enough.

"I don't need more security, I need answers!" Padmé burst out. Both men looked at her as if they had forgotten she was there. "I want to know who is trying to kill me!"

"I am here to protect you, Senator," Kenobi insisted with intractable patience. "Not to start an investigation."

Behind Kenobi, even Jar-Jar, who previously had shown the good sense to stay out of the ongoing arguments, was grinning and nodding in agreement. Padmé felt surrounded and at the same time, very alone. Her last ray of hope – that the Jedi would see his mandate as broader than merely providing security – faded away. It seemed there was no one anywhere who would advocate for her.

"I have a great deal of work to do in the Senate before the vote," she said tight-lipped, knowing she had lost this round, but refusing to yield entirely. "I expect to be allowed to carry on as normal."

Typho and Kenobi exchanged glances. Padmé feared the worst, but Kenobi assured her, with a transparent attempt at being soothing, "I will endeavor to create as little hindrance as possible to your daily routine."

"Very well." Padmé looked out the vast windows, longing to escape. The late afternoon sky was still pink. There were hours left in the day, but they certainly wouldn't allow her to go anywhere. In her small domain high in the sky, there was only one place she could be alone.

"I am going to retire," she announced, ending the meeting.

Both men bowed. If only they were as deferential when it counted.

Padmé took a last, long look at Obi-Wan Kenobi before she left him to Captain Typho's enthusiastic attentions. Of course he had turned out to be a Jedi like the rest of them, highhanded and obdurate. Qui-Gon Jinn would have been proud of his protégé. Even so, there was something about him... something intangible ... that Padmé sensed rather than understood. It puzzled her. She had the oddest sense of emptiness, almost as if there were a hole in the room.

Feeling unaccountably lonely without her Handmaidens and without... well, whatever it was that seemed to be missing ... Padmé took herself to her bedroom to work. She accomplished little. Fury makes it hard to concentrate. It was a very, very long evening.

x

It had grown dark when he tapped on her door.

"If you would like to prepare for bed, I will turn the security cameras off while you change, Senator."

Padmé looked up. "Not yet. I'm hungry." Good manners asserted themselves in spite of everything. "Are you?"

"I am on duty."

Padmé shrugged. "Please do turn off the cameras. I am going to change clothes, and then I'm going to order something to eat. If you want to keep an eye on me, you will just have to join me."

He bowed slightly and seemed as if he was about to leave, but hesitated.

"Is there something else?"

"Don't be afraid, Senator. Everything possible is being done to assure your safety."

"I'm not afraid, Master Kenobi, I'm angry! There is so much at stake, and not just for me."

Kenobi shrugged. "Anger _is_ fear. One cannot exist without the other."

"Well, I'll tell you another fear. I fear that this will not stop until the culprit is found. I fear that this situation will go on and on, taking up your time and costing me my freedom. You and I both know that mere security precautions won't help to resolve it."

Kenobi looked down. For some reason, Padmé held her breath. When he looked up again, his tone was mild. "I don't disagree. But you must understand that I am on my own in this assignment. It is impossible for me to leave you unprotected." He paused. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could counterattack, he added, "Let us just get through this night, Senator. In the morning perhaps we can find a way to widen my mandate."

Padmé breathed out. "Well," she said. "Yes." Deflated, she hastened to add, "Thank you."

Kenobi turned to leave.

"I think I would like to change my clothes now," Padmé called after him.

"As you wish."

Confident that he would keep his word about the cameras, Padmé happily rid herself at last of the heavy gown she had been wearing all afternoon. When she had replaced it with leggings and a light robe, and brushed her hair out into soft waves, she emerged into the sitting room only to be hit by delicious smells that made her mouth water and her poor empty stomach churn. A great tray of food, steaming hot and fragrant, stood on a low table. Kenobi stood beside it like a courtier, his hands hidden inside the sleeves of his robe.

"I took the liberty of ordering a meal," he said. "Your staff knows what you like."

Padmé sat down by the tray, weak with anticipation. Kenobi remained standing.

"Sit with me," she insisted, by way of thanks. "Help me. There is enough food here to feed an army."

"A small platoon, perhaps." When he smiled, he didn't look imperious at all.

Padmé dug in, heaping a plate with fruit and hot savory delicacies. Kenobi, she noticed, took only tea. He let her eat in attentive silence, occasionally handing her a cup or a dish she could not easily reach.

Finally, when she was satisfied enough to stop eating and leaned back in her chair, he ventured, "Senator Amidala, what staff do you have available?"

"Do you mean Captain Typho and his security team?"

"No ... I mean your personal attendants. Your Handmaidens. I understand they are highly trained bodyguards."

Padmé looked away, fiddling idly with her teaspoon. "I don't want anyone else to get hurt on my behalf."

"I understand that. But the tighter your security team, the more I might be spared to... investigate."

"You're serious?" Padmé stared at him. He certainly looked serious. "You will help me?"

"To the extent I can, without compromising your safety, yes. I won't make any promises. But if I felt that you were adequately protected, I might be able to move further afield."

"It seems that you are different after all," she murmured.

Kenobi raised an eyebrow. "Different?"

"You listen to me. In a Jedi, that's a first."

Kenobi looked amused "You are remembering Qui-Gon Jinn, I suspect."

Padmé smiled too. "Among others ..."

Kenobi nodded. "Those were difficult times."

"I never have been able to decide whether you Jedi made them more or less difficult."

Kenobi actually grinned.

Encouraged, Padmé asked, "That boy ... the one Master Jinn took from Tatooine ... the one who wanted so badly to become a Jedi..."

She stopped uncertainly mid-sentence because of the sudden change in Obi-Wan's expression. All the light went out of his eyes.

"Yes," he said soberly. "Anakin."

"That's right." Padmé put down her glass. "I was wondering what happened to him. Weren't you going to..."

"Yes." Kenobi took a sip of his tea, which undoubtedly had grown cold. "And no."

"I don't understand."

"The Council permitted me to accept Anakin as my Padawan learner. I took him to Coruscant with me."

"And?"

"And I worked with him for several months, before the Jedi Council members unanimously rescinded their decision.

"_What?"_

Kenobi started to take another drink, but the cup must have been empty because he merely stared into it. "I had to send him back home."

"To Tatooine?"

"Yes."

"But why? Why would the Council do that?"

Kenobi set the cup down. "Fear, I suppose."

"The Jedi Council was afraid of little Anakin? _But why?"_

"There were intimations ... visions of the future," Kenobi's eyes were suddenly as stormy as she had seen them on Naboo all those years before. "Collective visions. All of them ... the whole Council ... saw the same things. So they said."

"So you dashed his hopes."

"Yes."

"Because of _visions."_

"Yes."

And sent him back to that awful place..."

"Yes."

Shock caught up with Padmé, tightening a knot in her chest. If she had known... if she had even _suspected_...

"You sent him back to be a _slave?"_

"That is unlikely. His transponder had been removed. He went back a free being."

"But he was only a child! What happened to him?"

"I don't know."

"You didn't check _up_ on him? You never made sure he was _all right_?"

"I was never given the opportunity to go anywhere near Tatooine," Kenobi said flatly.

Padmé glared at him, feeling murderous. "You never fought them? You never fought for him?"

"In my own way."

"Then why..."

"I was given a choice. An unequivocal one."

Padmé thought about that. "You mean that they would have expelled you from the Order if you had..."

"If I had continued to train him, yes."

"So you chose ..."

In a sudden, blinding flash of green light, Kenobi leaped from his seat and hurtled toward Padmé's bedroom. It happened so fast she was left breathless and shaking.

"Bring me the empty cup!" he shouted, an order so urgent that she hastened with trembling fingers and knees to comply. She ran, and found him kneeling on the floor of her bedroom, staring at something. The green light was gone. Sensing her approach, he held his hand out for the cup, and used it to carefully scrape up something from the carpet.

Padmé crept closer and peered inside. It was ugly, slimy, and in pieces.

"What is it?"

"A pair of poisonous Komun."

Padmé took an involuntary step backwards.

Kenobi rose gracefully from the floor. "Quite dead now."

"Meant for me?"

"I think there is little doubt. As you were not in your bed, they were heading for the door. They seek flesh." Kenobi stared at a small, perfectly circular hole in the window, almost as if he might be inclined to leap out of it, but instead he merely stood there, cup in hand. "I think you can rest easily tonight, Senator."

"Easily? After _this_?"

"Precisely. The attempt has been made. If there is to be another, it will require time to prepare."

Padmé took a deep breath. "Will you stay here?"

"Of course, My Lady."

_My Lady._ He had used the honorific, as if she was somehow special or precious. The Supreme Chancellor still referred to her in that way. So, at times, did Bail Organa.

She took another deep breath.

"Obi-Wan?"

"Yes?"

"I think you should call me Padmé."

He bowed, still holding the cup full of dead insects.

"I need you to recall your Handmaidens ... Padmé. I'd like to see two on duty day and night in close proximity to you, in addition to Captain Typho's security forces."

"I will."

"Now, please."

Padmé did as he asked.

She was very glad that he was there.

x

Padmé's call for reinforcements was immediately successful. Two Handmaidens, Eirtaé and Rhea, had decided to wait out the Senator's irrational fit of guilt on Coruscant rather than return to Naboo as ordered. They were back on duty within an hour. Padmé did not scold them for having disobeyed.

Because Obi-Wan demanded round the clock attendance, two more Handmaidens had to be sent for. Sadly, her dearest friends were no longer in Padmé's service. Dormé had opted to marry and have a family. Sabé ... well, Sabé was running Palace security, well on her way to a ministerial position. It was she whom Padmé called.

"It's the middle of the night!" Sabé grumbled. "This had better be important."

Padmé explained. Sabé stopped grumbling and sat up straight. "Consider it done. Two more bodyguards. I'll pick the best."

"Thank you, Sabé." Padmé hesitated. "I wish it was you."

"I miss you, too. Come back to Naboo for a change, so we can catch up."

"I wish."

"I know."

"And ... Sabé? I need a personal favor..."

x

Not long after the Senator's call to her home planet for reinforcements, a small, sleek Nubian starship landed at Mos Eisley spaceport on the rough and rugged planet of Tatooine. Its two passengers quickly melted into the general populace. One of them, a young, petite brunette woman with dark eyes and pale, creamy skin, had more trouble blending in than did her dark skinned companion. Even her rough local-style clothing and her tightly braided hair couldn't hide her beauty, and she attracted surreptitious attention wherever she went.

Every man in town who wasn't blind or dead did a double take when he saw her. If she deigned to speak to any of them, and she did speak to a few, the man invariably told her anything she wanted to know and wished she would ask him more. They never tried anything, though. Her young, male, tough-looking companion had a proprietary air and a killer look.

But those ordinary men's reactions were nothing compared to the shock she gave one particular young local. When he happened to glimpse her turning a corner near the marketplace, he dropped what he was doing and ran after her blindly. When she disappeared from sight and he couldn't find her, he had to stop and lean against a wall for support, as pale and shaken as if he had seen a ghost.


	6. Chapter 5 Messages

**Chapter 5. Messages**

Somewhere in the great void of space, the luxury starship _Serena_ hurtled toward the Outer Rim carrying a single passenger. Originally a Kuati design, later highly modified and personalized, she was unusual among private vessels in that she was entirely staffed and operated by droids. While hundred-percent automation was common among freighters and transports, the wealthy who could afford colossal luxury yachts like the _Serena_ tended to staff them with sentient servants and crew, and fill them with doting hangers-on. After all, what good is ostentation if it cannot be shared? How comforting is splendor if one is alone in the vastness of space?

The lone sentient being on board the magnificent _Serena_ cared little for ostentation. He was far more interested in preserving his privacy.

In fact, for a man who oversaw enormous enterprises, and who used his great talents in persuading vast crowds of the rightness of a radical set of ideas; for a man who was considered charismatic and a natural leader, and who presided over the work and the hopes and dreams of millions of sentient beings, Count Dooku of Serenno spent remarkably little personal time in the company of other people.

He wondered about that sometimes.

Privacy was a necessity, yes; but often (too often, perhaps?) it was a preference. After all, any truly gifted individual had a difficult time finding stimulation in the company of ordinary people. A person whose fortunes had placed him at the confluence of mighty streams of destiny was even less likely to find himself among equals.

Besides, he often reminded himself, people were unreliable and inefficient. For real accomplishment of tasks, he counted on droids. He had hundreds of thousands under his command, directly or indirectly. Privately, Dooku enjoyed the irony that the political movement that swept the Galaxy in his name, inspiring millions of sentient beings to passionate action, was quietly and efficiently run by machine intelligence. Even the political leadership and the organizers did not know just how flimsy their ranks were, or that the heart and soul of the Separatist movement was little more than an elaborate clockwork: consistent, efficient, and tireless.

But herein lay his immediate problem. Because Dooku's droid-run organization was designed to shield him from all details (and people) that he did not care to deal with ... _because_ it was built on impersonal logic and unquestioning obedience, it was not possible for a personal message from someone utterly unknown to him, and of only infinitesimal importance in one of his many endeavors, to find its way to his personal attention.

A yet it _had_ happened. The incalculable probability had clicked through to its final sum, and Count Dooku had received a message that should never have arrived in his private quarters.

He stared at it, far more fascinated by the inconceivable number of flukes, happenstances, and twisted connections that it represented, than by the message itself.

A Thirlian named Dorn Wieeder, who was apparently in his employ (but whose acquaintance Dooku had no intention of making, now or ever) had taken it upon himself to send Dooku a personal message from a planet called Tatooine, which, he recalled dimly, was somewhere low down on a list of Outer Rim planets soon to be enclosed in the Separatist fold. Otherwise, the planet had no strategic value other than its relative proximity to Geonosis, where Dooku's attention _did_ dwell at the moment.

In the privacy of his spacious study on the _Serena_, Count Dooku, enemy of the Republic, former Jedi, and apprentice to a certain dark figure whose very existence augured the re-ascendance of the Sith, permitted himself a moment of utter, receptive stillness: the mental attitude of a predator sniffing the wind. Nothing in particular registered, neither the prickle of danger not the scent of opportunity. There was only the message, and the inexplicable fact of its arrival, and of course, that one little item within it that had caught his attention.

He reviewed the contents of the message again, skimming impatiently over the sender's ideological pandering and self-promotional blather until he reached the phrase, "... a former Jedi..."

He leaned back. Who could it be? Dooku knew the name of every living Jedi, including the few who had succeeded in leaving the Order, but he had never heard of anyone named "Skywalker." The whole thing had to be a load of rubbish. Without a doubt, he was wasting his time even pondering it.

And yet ... and yet ... against all odds, the message had found its way to him. It didn't do to ignore instances of synchronicity. They were often the most important pieces of information available.

Arching first one eyebrow, and then the other, he replayed the message for what he promised himself was the last time. As far as he could gather, the "former Jedi" Skywalker was living out his life as a kind of petty warlord. And in true petty warlord style, he was holding Wieeder hostage until Dooku agreed to meet with him.

There was no indication why Skywalker wanted the meeting. He already had made one significant mistake in assuming that Wieeder was in any way important enough to leverage it. To Dooku, men like Wieeder were as replaceable as droids, and just as irrelevant. Perhaps Skywalker was still sufficiently Jedi in his thinking to have missed that possibility? The whole thing was so primitive. So petty. Pathetic, really.

Dooku looked around the sleek starship that had become his home. Like everything else with which he surrounded himself, the _Serena _was sophisticated, orderly, and highly efficient. The finest available. Gleaming, impeccable...

_Bloodless._

Dooku sighed restlessly. Why would a former Jedi – one that quite obviously had escaped the sinkhole of excess piety – limit himself to a small life on a minor world? Who was this man on Tatooine? Why didn't Dooku know of him?

He already was near the Outer Rim, on his way to Geonosis. Tatooine wasn't far...

He sucked in a breath. Why was he even contemplating actually meeting this man? Was synchronicity the only factor? Or was it (Dooku had a great deal of difficulty admitting this, even to himself) sheer curiosity, coupled with an almost forgotten sense of the absurd?

Around him, the ship thrummed efficiently and impassively.

It had been a long time since anything had surprised him.

It had been a long time since he had gotten his hands dirty.

It had been a long time since he had smelled blood.

With a quick, decisive motion, he replied to the message with a time, a date, a set of coordinates, and two words: "Arrange it."

Two days after the Farmer's Market, Anakin's closest advisers (his 'posse,' as they thought of themselves collectively; outsiders called them his 'gang') gathered at their favorite Cantina in Mos Eisley at Anakin's request. A meeting, he'd said. Only Anakin wasn't there yet.

They trickled in, singly or in pairs, relishing the sudden transition from the day's blinding heat to the slightly cooler indoors. As always, they gathered at a large table at the very back of the rambling establishment.

Most of Anakin's inner circle already was there. Their conversation consisted of the economical exchanges and rough jokes of a band of brothers.

Owen arrived, to a chorus of murmured greetings.

"Where's Anakin? Is he with you?"

Owen shook his head. "I think he's still at the medicenter with our parents. I guess he'll be along when they're done checking out our mother."

Heads nodded sympathetically. Everyone knew the Tuskens had gotten to Shmi.

"How is she?"

"All right, I guess. The same. She still can't see. " Owen took a seat next to Remy, who clapped him sympathetically on the back. "Actually, I haven't seen Anakin for a couple of days. I've been ... um ... somewhere else.

That raised smirks all around. It was common knowledge that Owen spent as much time as possible at a neighboring farm with a blonde girl called Beru.

"There's a new girl in town," Lupie piped up, since the subject of women had come up, however indirectly. He was the youngest of the gang, between Anakin and Owen in age, but his deceptive air of innocence made him seem much younger. "She's the prettiest thing I've ever seen."

"You mean the little one with the big dark eyes?" someone else chimed in quickly.

" ... and the big dark bodyguard?" Remy shot back. Everyone laughed.

One of the Briggs brothers, the shy one, spoke up. "_I_ know the one you mean."

"_Everybody_ knows the one you mean," his twin pointed out dryly, reducing the first brother to silence again.

"She has to be an Offworlder," Lupie insisted. "The girls around here ... well, none of them look like _that."_

"Hey!" Owen punched him on the shoulder in defense of the women of Tatooine, one of whom he loved.

"You know what I mean," Lupie said wistfully. "She's just so..." he trailed off. It didn't matter. Everyone knew what he meant.

"She's been asking questions about Anakin," Remy said pointedly."

The others fell silent. A few looked surprised.

Lupie looked envious. "You talked to her?"

"Not me. But word has it." Remy was fiddling with his big knife, pulling it halfway out of its sheath and letting it fall back in. "I don't know why, though." He looked around the room with eyes that weren't laughing. "Yet."

His companions looked around at one another, but nobody had any news to add.

After an uncomfortable moment, Owen joked, "Well, that's perfect. She's his type, you know. Maybe he'll finally get a date."

"'Bout time!"

"Has he _ever _had a girl?"

"Wait ... Anakin has a type?"

"Sure he does." Owen leaned back comfortably. "Haven't you noticed? The only girls he ever looks at have long dark hair and aren't too tall."

"Not many of those around here," Lupie sighed.

"If there were, they wouldn't look at you!"

"I know where she's from."

Everyone looked at Kit, who had just come in. His dark, curling hair was damp with sweat.

"I was checking out the starships at the spaceport, seeing if there was one that Anakin could use, and there was this amazing cruiser ... beautiful thing, sleek as an arrowhead and polished like a mirror. I had to find out where it's from."

Everybody waited. Kit grinned, liking that he had everybody's undivided attention. "It's registered to the Royal House of Naboo," he finished with a flourish.

"Royal who?"

"What's Naboo?"

"Wait, isn't that the place Anakin went..."

"How do you know it's hers?" Lupie demanded over the din.

Kit turned to him. "I saw her come out of it."

"Did she ask you how to find Lupie, 'cause he's the only man who's got what she needs?" the bolder Briggs brother chortled. Everybody laughed except Owen and Remy, who exchanged a hard look.

"Why does Anakin need a starship?" Owen asked when the laughter died down.

Kit shrugged. "I dunno. He said he's going off planet soon."

"What for?"

"He didn't say."

"For how long?"

"He didn't say."

Well, what _did_ he say?"

"He said to find him a starship with a good hyperdrive that can be got for barter. It's got to be small enough so it doesn't need a crew."

"Damn," Remy muttered.

All conversation died away, leaving the desert men looking around at one another. Anakin was going away? Alone? As far as anyone knew, he hadn't been off planet since he was a child, before the gangster wars. All eyes ended up on Owen, whose lips were tight. Obviously it was news to him, too.

"There's something else," Remy said. His knife went _click _into its scabbard in the ensuing silence. "You know those two characters who kicked up a fuss about Anakin borrowing their starship?"

"Pretty boys."

"All clean and shiny."

"Need their asses kicked."

"Yeah, well." Remy stared at his knife. "They wanted to know all about the Farmer's Market, but they didn't buy a thing. Spent the whole day there, but they were looking at the buyers, not at the merchandise."

"Damn," somebody said again.

Remy's knife went '_click'_ into its scabbard again.

Owen cleared his throat. "Time for a drink."

"You're buyin'."

"The hell I am. I bought last time."

"Maybe it's _your_ ass that needs kicking."

"I'd like to see you try!"

Their wrangling was half-hearted, though. When Criff the bartender brought over the round of drinks, it was to an unusually silent table.

_Damn_! Criff thought, alarmed.

It sort of seemed to sum up the moment.

"Mom."

Shmi felt fragile in his arms, as if she had shrunk in size. Anakin kissed the slack softness of her cheek and worried about hugging her too hard.

"Alright ... Ani. Nothing ... can do. Is ... what is." Shmi spoke with difficulty, slurring her words.

_There is nothing we can do._ That's what the medics in Mos Eisley's primitive medicenter had told them. The Tusken's blow had caused damage that made her awkward and slow as well as blind. There was nothing to be done. The medics were the highest medical authority on Tatooine, so their verdict had satisfied Cliegg, and maybe even Shmi.

_It is what it is. _The fatalism of the slave. Anakin burned with resentment.

Cliegg and Shmi might accept the verdict of the coarse, clumsy medics and their rusty, outdated droids, but they had never traveled beyond their small, deprived world. They couldn't imagine the wonders that Anakin had seen in the Galaxy beyond. Even as a child, he had understood that anything was possible with the right technology and enough money.

_Anything_.

It was time for him to get off this dustball. He had known it for some time; had felt life's invisible forces pushing and pulling him into some unknown future. Lately everything that happened seemed to confirm his sense of hurtling in a direction that would soon fling him away from Tatooine. The water technology and the need to market it off planet. The arrival of the Thirlian with his links to a former Jedi. And now this – his mother's blindness. Anakin knew she could be helped. He knew it.

Just not here.

"Come on, son," Cliegg said in that rough voice of his that passed for gentleness when he was hurting. "We'd better get your mother back to the farm. We're not paying for the room for the whole day."

Anakin carefully laid his mother back on the medicenter's rough, rented pillow. Her eyes moved as if she was seeking him out, but when they came to rest she appeared to be staring at a point somewhere beyond him. Shmi was the only person who ever truly saw him. Without her knowing eyes looking right through him, keeping him straight and true, he felt as if he'd lost a part of himself.

"I can't come with you. I have to meet some people here in town. Popper and Solly will take you back to the farm."

"I don't need any of your gangsters followin' me home," Cliegg growled. "I can manage just fine on my own."

Anakin stood up to face Shmi's husband. "They're going with you. They've been waiting outside with the transport all morning."

"I said, I don't need them."

"I'm not letting you cross the wastes alone with Mom!"

"Listen, boy..."

"_Please..."_ Shmi's protest was faint, but it instantly stopped the argument. "Anakin, tell... friends ... glad of help. Cliegg... help me... to dress ... "

Shmi's men swallowed the rawness that was eating them up and did as they were bidden. When Anakin stepped out of the grim medicenter into the searing midday light, the same armored transport he'd borrowed not long before was sitting right in front of it. The two burly men, both former farmers, who sat in its shade playing cards looked up when he approached them.

"They're on their way. Thanks for waiting. I really appreciate this."

Popper scrambled up and rubbed his cropped gray hair. "No problem. You goin' to the cantina? The guys are all there."

"I'm on my way. I'll fill you in when I get back to the farm."

"Nah." Solly stood up too, shaking the sand out of his poncho. "We'll meet you back here in town once the farm's locked down. Don't want you travelin' back alone either."

"Thank you, brother." Anakin gave each of the men a quick fraternal hug – the kind that he and Owen shared only rarely. "I'll see you later."

He strode off in the direction of the cantina, too preoccupied with thinking about ways to make life easier for Shmi to notice that he was being followed.

Because he had been spending all of his time with Shmi out at the farm, Anakin was probably the last person in Mos Eisley to become aware of the presence of the lovely dark-haired Offworlder who had been asking questions about him all around town.

When he saw her hurrying along the dusty street near the cantina – when he glimpsed the glossy dark braids, the pale oval face and the lithe, straight-backed grace that instantly set her apart – Anakin's heart stopped for a whole eternity before it started skipping like a sputtering engine.

_It can't be her, it just can't ... she would have no reason to come here, none at all..._

He was still struggling to make out the woman's features when she disappeared around a corner. Anakin charged after her blindly, completely forgetting where he was and what he was supposed to be doing. He was fast, but the streets were crowded and she was way ahead of him. He lost her again after a few turns. Panting, desperate, leaning against a wall for support, he looked up and down the alleyway, trying to figure out where she had gone.

"Anakin, what the hell?" someone yelled. Behind him, at the far end of the alleyway, Popper was pounding after him, gesturing wildly.

_Back,_ Anakin decided sensibly. _I have to get back._ But his body ran the other way, up the alley where he had last glimpsed the woman. It was a miserable ditch of a street. There was no reason anyone would go there except it was a shortcut to...

_The spaceport._

Forgetting Popper, forgetting everything, Anakin ran like a madman, careening around corners and leaping over obstacles. The alley opened up into a crowded plaza ringed with crusty bars and wheedling stallholders that served the transients from the spaceport. He looked around anxiously, not liking the idea of seeing her in that place, yet desperately hoping that he would.

Anakin's pause gave Popper the chance to reach the plaza. "Anakin, for flak's sake, boy!" The old farmer yelled. He trotted painfully across to Anakin, bent over, and braced his knees, panting. "What got into you?"

"I'm fine, I'm sorry," Anakin murmured hastily, still scanning the surroundings. The woman was nowhere to be seen. "I just have to find someone, that's all..."

"Listen, Anakin, there's a guy who wants to talk to you..."

"Not now!" Anakin was about to bolt in the direction of the spaceport when a new voice, equally breathless-sounding, piped up. " Skywalker! Just the man! You said you would find me, but see here, I have found you instead. I have good news!"

Anakin whipped around like a krayt dragon ready to strike. It took him a moment to recognize the grinning face of the Thirlian he'd held captive not a week before - that Wieeder person.

"I said, NOT NOW!"

"But I have succeeded in the mission you set me..."

"Did you not HEAR me?"

Still gasping, Popper waved his hand in the general direction of the other man. "He wouldn't go away. He saw you and started running after you. So I had to... "

"The meeting is arranged, just as you asked!" the thick-skinned and seemingly oblivious Thirlian announced, beaming.

Anakin focused. "With Dooku? The meeting with Count Dooku?"

"Indeed. Once again I have succeeded where others would fail..."

Anakin stifled a tremendous urge to throttle the man. "Go with Popper," he ordered. Give him the details..." and he was off again, running the race of his life; not knowing whom, exactly, he was chasing, but frantic that he might have missed her.

The spaceport was at near capacity. It took Anakin a while to find what he was looking for, but when he did find it, his heart started slamming his chest a lot harder, and it wasn't from running.

She stood out like a piece of auridium in a dung heap: a gleaming Nubian starship.

He crept closer. She wasn't the J-type who's every line and specification he'd committed to memory so long ago. She was smaller, but just as beautiful. And the fact that she was there at all meant that...

_She can't be here. She can't. She can't..._

With shaking knees, Anakin circled the starship's tapered nose. On the other side of the ship, the gangplank was lowered. A dark-skinned young man of about Anakin's age stood near the top, dressed more roughly than any Naboo Anakin had ever seen. His sleeveless hopweave tunic revealed tightly muscled arms. His wide belt held a number of weapons. Anakin stopped and stared. The man spotted him instantly.

"What do _you_ want?"

Anakin didn't say anything.

The dark man took a step or two down the gangplank. "I said, _what do you want_?"

Anakin still didn't say anything because he didn't know what to say. He looked past the man, searching in the darkness of the open ship for... for _her_.

The man moved down the gangplank toward Anakin in earnest, all fluid motion and rippling intent. "Listen, buddy," he snarled, but Anakin barely noticed him because the young woman he had been chasing appeared in the hatch behind him. She did look like... she might have been...

But it wasn't her. It was someone else.

_Of course it's not her. She would have no reason to be here, none at all... _

"It's all right, Danil," the woman said in a soft, low voice. "I think I know who he is."

It was a lovely voice, but not the one that Anakin heard in his dreams. He began to breathe a little more easily.

The young woman walked down the gangplank to stand by her companion. "You're Anakin, aren't you?"

The man she had called Danil looked at her in surprise. "_That's_ him? Are you sure?"

Anakin remained mute, staring.

"You're Anakin Skywalker, aren't you?" she asked again.

Anakin swallowed. "How did you know?"

She moved closer. Her companion allowed it this time.

"We're here to find out what has become of you."

"_What?"_

"Our mission was to discover the whereabouts of a slave boy." She shrugged gracefully. "We had no idea that he would turn out to be the most famous person on Tatooine."

Before Anakin could form a coherent thought, she added, "I'm afraid we haven't been very discreet. We were instructed to make quiet enquiries. It didn't quite work out that way."

"_You_ haven't been very discreet, you mean," Danil countered pointedly. "I told you that I should have been the one asking the questions."

"No one would have told you a thing."

"Don't be so sure."

"Danil, will you please just..."

"Wait! " Anakin finally interrupted. "Why were you looking for me?"

The young woman glanced at her companion, almost as if she was seeking his agreement. His expression didn't change. After a moment she said soberly, "The request came from Senator Amidala."

"_Senator _Amidala!" Spoken out loud, the name curled around Anakin's ears like the whisper of shimmersilk. "But ... she's the Queen!"

Danil laughed. "Queen? Not for years now. She called in some favors at the Palace to find out about you." The young woman jabbed her companion in the side with her elbow to silence him.

"Why?"

"I'm sorry ... Anakin. May I call you Anakin?"

He nodded tersely. She sounded much more sympathetic than her companion.

"We were not told the reasons. There isn't much data available about Tatooine, so we had to come personally. We were just leaving, because we have the information we need." She paused. "It's quite a story."

"Did she say anything?" Anakin asked hoarsely. "Is there ... a message for me?"

"I'm sorry, no." The young woman shook her head. "I'm sure she doesn't even know we are here."

"The whole planet knows we're here," Danil muttered. "We should go."

Anakin must have looked utterly forlorn. The young woman lingered for a moment, studying his face.

"I don't think there is any reason we couldn't carry a message to Senator Amidala from you, if you'd like."

"That's not in our mandate!" Danil insisted.

"It's the least we could do," his companion shot back, "since none of this went the way it was supposed to." She looked at Anakin. "We were never supposed to meet."

Despite the woman's apparent honesty, despite the starship, the Naboo, and the heart-stopping possibility of actually communicating with Padmé, Anakin couldn't overcome his hard-won caution.

"I don't know you," he said pointedly.

The woman nodded. "Of course. You have no way of knowing whether we are trustworthy, and we have no way of proving that we are. All we can do is to introduce ourselves. My name is Vespé. I am a Handmaiden assigned to Queen Jamillia of Naboo. My surly companion here is Danil Panaka. He doesn't look like it now, but he is an officer in the Palace security service."

"Panaka," Anakin mused. "I met a Captain Panaka during the Trade Federation's blockade of Naboo."

"That was my father." Danil stared at Anakin. Slowly his eyes grew wider. "You're ... _that _Anakin Skywalker?"

Vespé grinned. "Danil, you can be so thick sometimes! How many do you suppose there are?" She turned back to Anakin, whose mind was racing. "So, Anakin, is there a message you'd like us to carry to Senator Amidala for you?"

There were a million messages he wanted to send to Padmé. He had as many things to say to her as there were stars in the sky. But at the moment, he couldn't think of one.

"Tell her..." he began finally, but his mouth was dry and he had to swallow before he could speak properly. "Tell her..." he began again, "that I'm ... um... taller."


	7. Chapter 6 Flashpoint

**Chapter 6. Flash Point**

The third attack on Padmé Amidala took place when she was side by side with her Jedi protector. Neither one saw it coming.

It was in the water of one section of the Senate building (section FVC481-4, to be precise) a narrow wedge of the great circular structure that contained Senate offices on multiple floors as well as vast maintenance areas below. The toxin's ingress into the drinking water was later traced to a specific point in a single pipe. It had been injected very close to the point of effluence, limiting its effect to only thirty or forty Senate offices and one refectory. One of the offices was that of the Senate Delegation from the Naboo System.

Padmé began to feel ill, as did many others, during the Senate session. While Obi-Wan Kenobi had stuck to her like a shadow during her entire day, she had categorically refused to allow him to accompany her into the Senate Chamber pod.

"I can't imagine a better way to make myself a target than by having a Jedi sitting next to me in my pod," she had snapped.

Obi-Wan had yielded because it was true. Instead, he waited for her in one of the viewing galleries high at the top of the chamber, observing the space tirelessly for the slightest hint of danger.

He had sensed the intent to do harm long before it manifested, and spent far too much time searching through the Force for indications of external dangers such as weapons or explosives. By the time his perception indicated poisoning, Pod occupants throughout the Senate Chamber, Padmé among them, already were signaling their wish to leave immediately. Later, Obi-Wan berated himself bitterly for his slowness.

Padmé and the others who had fallen ill were treated on an emergency basis right there in the halls of the Senate before the worst cases were transported to a medicenter. Padmé was very ill, but conscious. It took every bit of Obi-Wan's rudimentary Force-healing skill to strengthen her body's ability to fight off the toxin. Because of his timely intervention, she was declared stable by the triage medics and allowed to return home with round the clock medical assistance rather than being taken to the center. Once he was sure that Padmé would survive, Obi-Wan attempted to help other victims in the same way (no one was aware of his assistance, of course; the Force does not require the conduit of hands or tools to do its work), but it came too late for many.

By the time the crisis had been managed and the uproar had died down, Padmé was back in her apartment in bed, attended by her anxious staff and two medics, and feeling just well enough to be furious. Obi-Wan was actually relieved when she began blazing at him with both blasters - metaphorically speaking, of course.

"You _cannot_ be serious!"

"It is the only possible conclusion, My Lady."

"Don't you 'My Lady' me, Obi-Wan Kenobi! You're wrong. Even an insensitive, thick-headed, self-righteous Jedi like you can be wrong!"

Evidently he'd hit a nerve.

"Consider the evidence," he repeated patiently. "The first two attacks on you were very specific. Both failed. Given that – especially if it is known to your attackers that you are now under Jedi protection – a different tactic was required. An attack on a larger group of people that includes you is a logical next step, because it vastly increases the probability that I won't be able to protect you. As we have seen, that _was_ the case."

All Padmé had done was to take a drink of water. It was not something that Obi-Wan had thought to prevent her from doing, even though, as was his habit, he had eaten or drunk nothing while on duty.

From the point of view of effectiveness, the attacker's plan had been very, very good.

Eirtaé peeked into Padmé's bedchamber, spotted Obi-Wan, and tried to withdraw again, but Padmé beckoned to her.

"Do you have it?"

"Surely this isn't the time, My Lady," Eirtaé suggested quietly. Tall and slender, pale and blond, she was older than the other Handmaidens, and carried a quiet sense of authority. "You are ill, and need to rest."

"If you have the report," Padmé snapped, "I want to hear it."

Eirtaé exchanged a look with Obi-Wan, and then said with visible reluctance, "Every Delegation on our corridor in the senate building was affected, as well as all the Delegation offices on the same length of corridor six levels above us and five below. The attack was limited to the segment of the building that contains our offices."

"How many people were hurt?" Padmé demanded.

Eirtaé glanced at Obi-Wan again for help.

"That's enough, Senator," he said firmly. "There will be time enough to read the report in detail later."

"HOW MANY?" Padmé shouted.

Eirtaé took a breath. "Fifty-two people died, and several hundred became violently ill. You're among the lucky ones, My Lady."

"Who are the dead?" Padmé asked hoarsely.

Reluctantly, Eirtaé recited a seemingly never-ending list of staff, office neighbors, friends and colleagues. By the time she had finished her grim litany, Padmé was no longer angry. She looked beaten.

"How is it possible for that level of evil to exist in the Senate?" she whispered. "In the heart of our democracy?"

"It can," Obi-Wan said soberly. "Believe it."

"I refuse."

Obi-Wan smiled faintly. "That is to your credit."

Padmé's eyes spilled over with a torrent of held-back tears, their heat so palpable that Obi-Wan thought they must be burning her cheeks. "If what you say is true, then I am responsible for what happened to all those people. My staff... my colleagues..."

"The collateral damage was not your doing, Padmé. It was your attacker's assessment of what it is worth to destroy you."

"Why?" she wept.

"Until we know, the only way to protect others from these attacks against you is for you to go into hiding." He didn't need to add, "... as I have been insisting all along." He was only sorry that he hadn't overridden her protests against leaving Coruscant in the first place. He couldn't think why he had allowed her to persuade him.

Padmé sank back into her pillows. "I need to rest," she croaked.

"Of course." Obi-Wan stood up. She needed to cry it out, and then to sleep. Meanwhile, he would decide where best to hide her. He would accept no more arguments in favor of remaining on Coruscant.

There was another tap on the door. Obi-Wan opened it personally, determined to put and end to further disturbances. It was young Rhea, with a message for Padmé.

"Give it to me."

Rhea blushed. She still seemed uncomfortable in his presence. Obi-Wan had no idea why, but it was the least of his worries."

"It's from Sabé," she explained hastily. "A personal message for Padmé."

"Let her in, for heaven's sake," Padmé sobbed behind him.

Obi-Wan stepped aside for the young Handmaiden, and then, with considerable relief, removed himself from the scene. He had work to do.

x

The bedchamber that had been Anakin's since he and Shmi had arrived at the farm so many years before was the smallest in the dwelling. Two grown men filled it to capacity.

Anakin filled up the narrow pallet, sitting cross-legged while wrapping a few belongings into a bundle. He hadn't occupied the room more than occasionally for years, but he still kept a few clothes and other personal items in the cupboards. Remembering how cold it was in space, he had spread out his warmest cloak to use as the wrapping for his bundle. On top of it he placed his 'best' clothes, a plain dark brown tunic and leggings, his 'best' boots (the ones that could still hold a polish) and a wide belt.

Owen leaned inside the doorway with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His shoulders were hunched. Every line of his body showed resentment.

"I don't understand why you won't take me with you. I've never been off planet."

Anakin looked up. "Come on, Owen. Somebody has to take care of things until I get back."

"Remy's doing that. You've got him running the whole farmer's market operation from grab to sales.

"Would you prefer that I'd left it to you?"

"No. I'd prefer that you take me with you."

Anakin looked away. "It's not that kind of a trip."

"You're going to look for medical help for Mom. Who better to come with you than me?"

"Who's going to take care of her while I'm gone?" Anakin retorted.

"Dad will. Like he always does."

Anakin didn't answer. When he met Owen's eyes, what he saw was a lot more complicated than he would have wished.

He looked away, around the small bedchamber, which a child might have found cozy. But by the time he had arrived there, Anakin's childhood had been over and done with. It had ended the day that Obi-Wan Kenobi looked into _his_ eyes and explained that he would not, after all, be trained as a Jedi.

Freed from bondage, freed from his Jedi vows, Anakin had inhabited the little chamber as a refugee, a person displaced. He'd never liked it.

"You're not just going because of Shmi," Owen said flatly.

Anakin wrapped his bundle experimentally, decided that it was too bulky, and opened it again. He took out the boots and belt. He'd wear the boots instead. One pair would do.

"You've had this planned since you heard about that ex-Jedi. And now that he's agreed to meet, you can't get away fast enough."

"I have to take the opportunity when it arises, that's all. I might not get another one."

"To do _what_ exactly? What do you want from this Dooku guy anyway?"

_That_ was a very good question. He didn't have an answer that would make sense to Owen. He could barely explain it to himself. He just wanted ... he _needed_...

Anakin shrugged and pointed at a shelf that contained a stack of neatly folded clothes. "Hand me that pile over there, will you?"

Owen pushed himself away from the door, grabbed the pile, and threw it at Anakin's head. Then he went back to leaning against the wall with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, watching the brother he'd never really understood.

Anakin selected a couple of undertunics, socks and another pair of leggings and tossed the remainder of the pile aside. Owen watched in surly silence as he laid the few items of clothing on top of the cloak and began to roll it all together. At the last moment Anakin pulled something out of his pocket and laid it on top of the pile, quickly rolling the clothing around it.

Owen had caught the quick gleam of metal. "What was that?"

"Nothing."

This time the bundle stayed closed. Anakin used the belt to strap it all together.

"Seriously, Anakin, why are you doing this?" Owen asked again.

Anakin swung his long legs off the small pallet and pulled off his old boots, replacing them with the slightly newer ones. They could use a better polish. He might do that before he left, if there was time. Grabbing his bundle, he stood up.

Owen blocked the doorway. "I want some answers, _brother_!"

Nearly a head taller, Anakin looked down into his brother's face, faced the challenge in his eyes, and still didn't know how to explain himself.

"Me, too, Owen. I need answers. I need them more than anything. I believe that this is the only way I'm ever going to get them."

They stared at one another for one of those long, loaded moments between brothers that could just as easily end in combat as in concord.

Owen chose peace. "You're planning to come back, right? I mean, you're not just going to ditch us..."

Anakin punched him lightly on the shoulder. "'Course not. Where else would I go?"

"Yeah," Owen echoed, finally moving aside. "Where else?" He looked around the little chamber one last time before leaving it.

Anakin didn't.

x

It might have been the leftover queasiness from the toxin she had ingested, but Padmé felt the strangest sensation in her stomach after watching the holo that Sabé had provided. Honoring Padmé's request for absolute secrecy, Sabé had sent it so heavily encrypted that only R2 could play it.

Padmé watched it twice by herself. The third time, she made her Handmaidens watch it, too. They huddled together on Padmé's bed listening to Vespe's calm, efficient rendition of a story that might have come from a holo-vid, one of those melodramatic serials with orphans, slaves, heroes and pirates. Only, all of those parts would have had to be played by a single person.

The only thing missing from the tale was the requisite high romance.

At the very end of the holo, Vespé had inserted a fuzzy likeness of a man's face. The image looked as if it might have been captured surreptitiously, perhaps through a piece of clothing. The only parts that could be discerned clearly were the curve of a cheek and a pair of eyes. Somber eyes, under thick brows. In the bluish light of the holo-vid, their color was indeterminate. Light, probably. Familiar, in a way... and yet, decidedly not.

This was no young child.

"Are you all right, My Lady?" Eirtaé pulled the covers up over Padmé's shoulders. "You're shivering."

"I still feel a little feverish. It will pass."

A rumble of voices suddenly arose outside the room's closed door.

"Turn it off, Artoo," Padmé hissed. "Quickly."

By the time someone knocked on the door, the holo was gone, the lights were dimmer, and the little astromech droid stood stoically in the corner like a piece of furniture. Padmé slid further down into the covers. "Say I'm sleeping."

"As you wish," Eirtaé murmured, sounding amused for the first time since the Senate tragedy. She slipped off the bed and went to the door. A muted conversation followed. She returned alone. "The Jedi is pleased that you're resting," she said dryly. She always referred to Kenobi as 'The Jedi.' "So what is this all about?"

"I don't know," Padmé said into the coverlet. "I need to think."

"I agree with Obi-Wan... um... Master Kenobi," Rhea offered shyly. "You should sleep. You are not well."

"I feel so strange all over," Padmé agreed. "Perhaps I will."

The Handmaidens had smoothed the bedcovers and further dimmed the lights when Padmé sat straight up in bed again. "Oh!"

"What is it, My Lady?"

"Rhea, can you bring me my jewelry box? The small one that I carry all the time."

Rhea glanced at her superior, who shrugged.

"Of course." She hurried to a hidden cupboard and retrieved a beautiful box, the work of a Naboo artist, in which Padmé kept the items she used most often, and then lingered awkwardly while Padmé rummaged through it, uncertain whether she was still needed.

"Hah." Padmé pulled out a small trinket that Rhea had never seen before, even though she had opened the box a hundred times. She couldn't quite make out what it was, and of course, it wouldn't do to ask.

Padmé handed back the box, but kept the trinket. "Thank you, Rhea."

Rhea dropped an involuntary curtsey, because she was young, easily intimidated and couldn't help herself. When she had returned the box to its place, Eirtaé took her gently by the arm. "Come on, young one, "she whispered. "It's time to go."

Padmé couldn't study the trinket in the dark, but it didn't matter. She knew exactly what it looked like.

_I made this for you so you'd remember me... it will bring you good fortune._

Good fortune. That was exactly what she needed. Rolling over onto her side, resting her cheek on the hand that clutched the carved japor snippet, she wondered vaguely, _how tall is tall? _before falling fast asleep.

Sleep didn't last. A few hours later she was up again while everyone else slept, feverishly pursuing an idea that would not let go.

x

Owen wasn't the only one whose nose was out of joint over Anakin's imminent departure from Tatooine, even if it was only meant to be a brief foray off planet. Cliegg, who usually breathed a sigh of relief when Anakin left the farm, became even grumpier, muttering things about Anakin 'abandoning' his mother in her time of need.

The crew from the cave had been acting funny, too. Kit had done his job and found Anakin a beat-up, two-man planet jumper that a nervous-looking Rodian had been only too happy to swap for a combination of goods otherwise destined for the Farmer's Market.

"What a piece of junk!" they'd scoffed when Kit showed it off proudly, as if insults could ward off the inevitable. Secretly, they were impressed with the ratty ship's firepower. It looked as though it meant business. But then, pirates always flew hot.

The fact that the ship probably hadn't been the Rodian's to trade in the first place was immaterial; ownership was a fluid concept on a planet that survived on piracy. As a precaution against future unpleasantness, though, it made sense to modify the thing a little before Anakin took it over, starting with the color and serial numbers. When Kit asked the others for help, they pretended to be too busy doing other things, as if, by making it harder for Anakin to depart, they could somehow prevent his going.

In the end, Anakin and Kit had to do all the work themselves, but Anakin didn't mind because it gave him the chance to really look the ship over and make a few modifications of his own. Kit didn't mind either, because for his trouble, Anakin gave him a nice speeder bike that was supposed to fetch a good price at the next Farmer's Market, which made the others even testier.

The only person who didn't question or resent Anakin's decision to go off planet was Shmi. At the end of each long day of preparation, Anakin returned to the farm and shut himself in the room with her to talk out the frustrations of the day. She listened, occasionally responding in that halting way she'd had since the attack.

The day he and Kit finished working on the ship, it was still daylight when Anakin returned to the farm. Shmi knew before he told her that his preparations were complete. She'd sensed it in his movements, his tone, in the energy he'd brought with him into the room.

"Take me... out..." she asked, holding her arms out to him.

Anakin quickly knelt down next to her. "Out? Do you want to sit in the atrium?"

"Outside," she insisted. "See ... sunset."

Anakin bit his lip when she used the word 'see.' Cliegg would have a fit if Shmi went outside without the protection of anything less than an armed platoon. He hesitated.

"Please," she begged.

"Sure." If his Mom wanted to go outside, then he wasn't going to deny her.

Anakin scooped her carefully into his arms. She clung to his neck while he maneuvered her through the empty atrium, picked up a blaster rifle from the case by the stairs as a precaution, and carried her to the surface, all the while keeping an eye out for Cliegg. Even Anakin wouldn't take her outside of the safety zone, so he settled her against the warm wall of the dome facing west, and squatted down next to her with the rifle across his lap, keeping watch for movement along the perimeter. Shmi raised her face to the suns, which were beginning their evening descent into glorious light and color.

_She can't see this. _The thought twisted Anakin's gut. His throat constricted. _She can't see any of this._

But Shmi's face was smooth and serene. She even had the faintest ghost of a smile on her lips. Anakin watched her for a while, and then dared to close his eyes for a moment too, curious about what she felt, about what she might perceive.

The waning sunlight warmed his face it a way he hadn't quite noticed before – softly, without the burning harshness of midday. The air became a thing alive, full of tiny movements. And it brought smells with it – all kinds of scents, from the bland dry base note of dust and rock to the mineral odor of the clay in the wall. Anakin sniffed the air like an animal, detecting for the first time infinite tiny variations in scent for which he had no name.

He stretched out with his feelings, the way Obi-Wan had taught him to do so long ago. He had found it a difficult trick then, not fully understanding what Obi-Wan was getting at, but he had practiced it faithfully in the intervening years, and now it felt completely normal to send out his awareness and feel as if he could actually touch the suns. Behind his closed eyes his mind swirled with sunset colors. When he opened them, the colors and patterns he saw were still there - sight merely confirmed them. He glanced at his mother again, and wondered whether she too could 'see' the sunset without use of her eyes. It was a new thought. He'd have to make sure that Cliegg agreed to bring her out here in the evenings when he was gone.

Shmi seemed to sense that he was thinking about his departure.

"Don't be afraid," she said thickly.

"I'm not. Not really." He laughed a little. "It's crazy. Do you know that I've never navigated a hyperspace jump before? I mean, I know how it's done. I've studied it. I've rebuilt dozens of navcomputers. I know how the programming works. I just... haven't done it."

"You can."

"Yes." Anakin ran some sand through his fingers. "I'll just plug in the coordinates and go."

"Where?"

"I'm not exactly sure. It's a planetoid of some kind. An old mining colony, I think."

Shmi didn't reply. Anakin didn't expect her to. What could anyone say about the obvious insanity of what he was about to do? The risks were off the charts. And yet...

"I have to go, Mom."

"I know."

"I have to find out if it was me... or them."

"Not you," Shmi said firmly. "Jedi ... were... _wrong_."

Anakin closed his eyes again. If he could finally get an answer to the question that had eaten away at him for ten long, years ... _What was so wrong with me? ... _then maybe, finally, it would stop burning away in his heart, smoldering at the edges of everything he thought and did. It would be nice to have some peace.

Despite friends, despite family, it is a hard fate to be the only one of your kind. His mother understood this. She was the only one who did.

"Shmi!" Cliegg's voice bellowed from somewhere behind them, probably at the top of the entry stairs.

"We'd better go," Anakin whispered, and gathered his mother up in his arms again.

Cliegg was red with fury when they rounded the dome and came into view.

"It's all right," Anakin said defensively. "Mom just wanted some fresh air."

"DON'T YOU EVER ..." Cliegg bellowed, but Shmi raised her hand to her lips and he stopped shouting. Anakin brought her closer until they were standing right next to Cliegg. He would have stared his stepfather down, but Cliegg avoided his eyes.

"Shhhh... Shmi soothed, reaching her hand out for Cliegg, and coming nowhere near. "I asked... Ani.".

Cliegg caught the searching hand and held it tightly for a moment before letting go. "Come inside now," he said gruffly, still avoiding Anakin's gaze.

As Anakin carried her down the stairs, Shmi whispered, "Take... Threepio..."

"Threepio? Take him where?"

"Take... with you..."

"You want me to take Threepio with me?" Cliegg, who had preceded them down the stairs, looked up, startled.

"Yes."

"Mom, he's just a protocol droid. He can't help me. Now, if I had an astromech..."

"Take him!" she urged hoarsely, startling Anakin with her vehemence.

"OK, OK, I'll take him." Anakin looked at Cliegg. "If that's all right with you."

Cliegg waved him off. "Take the damn droid! And good riddance."

When the three humans had crossed the atrium in the direction of the sleeping chambers, the shabby-looking protocol droid that had been standing in the shadows under the stairs awaiting orders said softly, "Oh, dear. Oh, dear."

x

"You seem to be feeling better."

Padmé looked up from a barely touched plate of food to see Obi-Wan standing in the doorway of her sitting room.

She gestured to indicate her breakfast tray. "As you can see, they have me eating again. The medics declared my recovery near-miraculous."

"I know. I spoke to them." Obi-wan didn't move toward her. He looked as composed as always, but there was something about his bearing, a kind of hidden tension, that suggested he was about to deliver news that she wasn't going to like.

Padmé took another experimental bite of fruit. Miraculous recovery or no, she still wasn't feeling well enough to face it. She was exhausted and dizzy, and having spent the better part of the night up and making plans hadn't helped either.

As a result of the night's efforts, she had news for Obi-Wan, too. And she knew that he _definitely_ wasn't going to like it.

Sure enough, Obi-Wan wasted no time in making his announcement. "Padmé, I have decided where to take you to ensure your safety."

When Padmé didn't respond right away, he added, "You _do _understand that there can be no more arguments about this."

"Of course," Padmé stared at her plate, her fork poised delicately between a piece of Shurra fruit and a slice of sweetmeat. Neither one appealed. "You were right all along. I apologize for having given you such a hard time." Putting her fork down in surrender, she treated Obi-Wan to the best smile she could muster, considering that her face still felt puffy from yesterday's weeping. "Would you like some tea?"

His eyes settled on her, probing, unmoved by her attempt at charm. "No, thank you."

"Well, then." Padmé pushed away the tray. "If there is nothing else, I suppose we should get going. I'm packed and ready. Our transport is waiting on the landing platform."

Obi-Wan moved closer. "Transport?"

"Yes," Padmé said, mustering a certain false brightness. "Master Windu has provided us with a suitable ship, and a shuttle to take us to it."

"Master _Windu? _When did you ... I haven't disturbed Master Windu with our plans ... it's inappropriate... "

"He didn't mind. He was very gracious, and very quick to help. He agreed that my plan was a good one. Actually, his exact words were, 'Senator, you seem to have a knack for being the sand flea in every jar of ointment. I wish you good luck with this scheme of yours. You will need it.' But then he authorized our transport, so I took it as a positive statement.

"Your plan? Your _scheme_? What are you talking about?"

"We're leaving Coruscant, Obi-Wan. In fact, we're leaving the Core. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

"Excuse me, My Lady, but I'm in charge of security here!"

"Well, technically speaking, the _Jedi_ are in charge of my security, and accountable to the Supreme Chancellor for it. Master Windu represents the Jedi Council, does he not? I had a proposal, and I felt it best to clear it at the highest levels." She fixed him with her severest Senator Amidala look. "So there could be no lingering questions or concerns."

"What have you done, My Lady?" Obi-Wan's tone would have stopped an ordinary being cold at fifty paces.

Padmé didn't flinch. "I'm _helping_." She let a few heartbeats go by. "Just as Master Jinn helped me all those years ago." She stood up and moved closer to Obi-Wan, who was staring at her. "In fact, you could say that Master Jinn was the inspiration for my plan. I learned _so much_ from him."

"Where are we going?" Obi-Wan asked very, very quietly. His stare had turned to flint. Eventually she had to look away.

"To the Outer Rim."

"Where exactly?" The more questions Obi-Wan had to ask, the quieter his voice got. The quieter his voice got, the more it made Padmé nervous.

"Tatooine," she said quickly. "It's a place I've hidden before. You remember..."

Obi-Wan didn't say anything. He just stared at her. For a _long_ time.

"Obi-Wan, I'm sorry that I went over your head... " Padmé stopped. Somehow her tongue ceased working.

Obi-Wan stared at her some more. Then he turned abruptly and left.

He still hadn't said a word.

"You know, if I hadn't been told it was impossible, I'd say that you just got under that Jedi's skin."

Padmé turned around to see Eirtaé standing behind her, folding a shawl. "You heard?"

"Of course. I also overheard your call to Master Windu last night. It wasn't exactly as you represented it to the Jedi, was it?"

Padmé shrugged. "I only wanted to know whether going to Tatooine would be a problem for Obi-Wan. You know... because of what happened between him and Anakin. I was trying to _avoid_ trouble, not make it!"

"Really? Because it seems to me that what you were trying to do was to get your own way, no matter the cost."

Padmé rubbed her face, suddenly exhausted again. "Maybe I was. I'm tired of being ordered around for my own good. I want to have some say in what happens next."

"Apparently, you have succeeded."

"Yes. But I'm beginning to regret having been so cavalier about it."

"So underhanded, you mean."

Padmé looked sourly at the Handmaiden. "Eirtaé, if you were anyone else..."

"But I'm not."

Padmé felt herself beginning to tremble. It was something she couldn't control, as if her body were not her own. Just before her knees buckled, Eirtaé caught her and guided her to a sofa.

"You are not as well as you might think. You should rest."

"Breakfast didn't sit well," Padmé said weakly. "No matter what the medics said."

"Maybe you should re-think this plan of yours," Eirtaé suggested gently. "Tatooine is not a particularly hospitable planet. Perhaps the Jedi has come up with a less ... ah... _adventurous_ option."

Padmé smiled wanly. "My credibility with the Jedi Council already is stretched thin. I don't think that they would hear me out if I approached them a second time."

Eirtaé tucked the shawl she'd been carrying around Padmé's shoulders. "Stay here. I'll send Rhea to you, and then I'll find the Jedi and speak with him about this."

"He trusted me, Eirtaé. Anakin trusted me completely. If I had known what would happen ... if someone had told me that they were sending him back..."

"I know."

"I just want to see him, you know. To make sure he's all right." _To make sure he doesn't blame me. "_It seemed like such a perfect plan."

"I know! Rest now."

Padmé leaned her head back into the cushions, trying to forget the cold spark in Obi-Wan's eyes. She closed her eyes, but the image wouldn't go away.

She was too tired and too ill to be playing hardball. Had she been more herself, Padmé would have been quick to suspect that the Jedi Council's support for her venture had been entirely too easily obtained.


	8. Chapter 7 Departures

Author's note 1. This story is going on a brief hiatus, as I'm off traveling for a while. I hope to begin posting again at the beginning of May. Fear not – it WILL continue! In the meantime, please do lever me your comments. I love 'em!

Author's Note 2. Just to give you a visual picture of Anakin's ship, the YT 700 is the earliest precursor of the larger YT-1300. Years later, a YT-1300 became famous as the "Millennium Falcon."

**Chapter 7. Departures**

"With all due respect, Masters ..."

"Angry, you are, Obi-Wan."

"Master Yoda, I would like to think that I have better control over myself than that."

"_Very _angry, you are."

The holo-image was crystal clear. Obi-Wan could make out every line in the wizened Jedi Master's shimmering blue face. Beside him, Master Windu's countenance was a smooth indigo mask with glittering eyes. Mindful that his own image would be every bit as revealing, Obi-Wan barely allowed the muscles in his face to move.

"May I, for the purposes of carrying out my mission more effectively, be allowed to understand why you agreed to Senator Amidala's proposal?"

"Expedient, her proposal was. Have come at a better time, it could not."

_Calm... calm... BE CALM! _Obi-Wan stood mute with his hands tucked into his sleeves.

Master Windu took over. "Obi-Wan, our analysis droids have identified the toxin used in the Senate attacks. It is not a biotoxin as we initially expected, but a synthetic enzyme that acts like a prion, attacking and degrading proteins at the molecular level. Similar compounds have primarily industrial applications in polymerization and site activation for intelligent hardware."

Instinctive revulsion made Obi-Wan's stomach heave. "An _industrial _compound? Used in building _droids_?"

"You see our difficulty. This information widens the scope of our investigation rather than narrowing it."

Obi-Wan did see. The trail could lead to any manufacturing cluster in the Galaxy, or to the industrial Guilds, or even to the Senator's old enemy, the Trade Federation.

"Meanwhile, our intelligence sources have noticed a sharp buildup of Separatist activity in the Outer Rim."

"The Outer Rim? Why? The planets of the Outer Rim are widely scattered. They have little political influence and few natural resources."

"Perhaps. But strategically speaking, if it came to war, the Outer Rim planets would make a formidable asset for the Separatists as a place to hide armies, or to create conflicts that would draw resources away from the Core..."

"Masters, do you really think it will come to war?"

The faces of the Jedi Masters stared out at Obi-Wan from the column of blue. For a moment, the silence was so deep that he wondered whether he'd lost the audio portion of the transmission.

"That we do," Master Yoda said finally. "It is something we have foreseen."

Well, that was news. While rumors of war abounded both within and without the Temple's walls, to Obi-Wan's knowledge, no such statement had ever been made openly by a Jedi Council member.

He waited, working to keep his heartbeat steady.

"As you know, Obi-Wan, ten years ago, certain visionary revelations were received by the entire Jedi Council. Our decision to exclude young Skywalker from further Jedi training was a direct result of these ... insights."

The Council had never shared with him – nor, as far as he knew, with anyone outside its number – the precise details of the visions that had caused them to jettison his young Padawan. It appeared that they were not going to be more specific this time, either. The old bitterness tried to resurface, but Obi-Wan pushed it down.

He cleared his throat. "You believed these revelations to be ... prophecies?"

The Jedi Masters answered together.

"We did."

"We do."

Obi-Wan felt his already fragile equanimity slipping. A vein in his temple throbbed. "But Masters, if you took steps to prevent what you foresaw ten years ago, surely the end result has changed?"

"Pictures we received, Obi-Wan. Images. Outcomes. Elaborations of possible futures. It is upon us – it always has been upon us – to discern the paths to those outcomes. Certain, we are not, that all paths have been found, or that all necessary steps have been taken." Master Yoda leaned forward. "But find these paths, and take these steps, we must."

"The future is always in motion," Master Windu chimed in. "The way there is never clear."

_But,_ Obi-Wan wondered, _if the future changes, doesn't prophecy change with it? _He didn't voice that thought, though. What he said was, "What is it, Masters, that you want me to do?"

It seemed to be the right response. Master Yoda's expression softened.

"An assignment we have for you, Obi-Wan, unlike any other you have been given. Help us, you must, to find the connections we cannot yet see. Go to the Outer Rim with Senator Amidala. Go to Tatooine. Study your surroundings and the people you encounter. Meditate on them. Follow whatever directions, whatever connections, are shown to you by the Force, but even more ..." (Master Yoda leaned closer so that his face filled the entire blue column) "... explore, if you can, the paths that the Force seems to obscure."

Obi-Wan struggled to understand what was wanted of him. Master Yoda was right; he had never been given a mission that was so ambiguous, so poorly defined. Something cold fluttered in his stomach. He ignored it and concentrated on obtaining what clarity he could.

"Of all the places in the Galaxy, why Tatooine, Masters?"

"Because, Obi-Wan, your former Padawan is there. All the paths we were shown begin with him."

The sinking feeling got worse. A memory rose unbidden.

_... blue eyes, child's eyes, hot and tearless, staring at him silently, while the Force ruptured around them, flaying them both with rage and grief..._

He pushed it aside, forcing himself to focus only on the moment. "And I am to do all this while continuing to protect Senator Amidala?"

"Protect her you must, of course."

_... then the accusations began, the child's voice pitched high in keening, but vibrating with a deep undertone, a second voice, the voice of the Master to them both ... "You promised, you promised, you PROMISED!..."_

Master Windu came back into the picture. Obi-Wan fought for control. His chest ached from holding in the hurt.

"You'll have to find a way, Obi-Wan. We have faith in your ability to assure the Senator's safety while carrying out your larger mission.

_My larger mission. _The Masters really placed great importance on this... this business of vaguely defined, poorly targeted, random-seeming intelligence gathering. The practical difficulties of this dual mission – never mind the personal hell – took second place to this new and unwelcome image of the entire Jedi Council walking blindly along an unknown path.

_Prophecies or no, they don't know what they are looking for._

_They are feeling their way in the dark with a stick._

_And I'm the stick!_

The last time Obi-Wan had felt so betrayed was after Qui-Gon's death. At the time, it had seemed that his Master had strayed too far from the fold, and had lost his way. For the first time, Obi-Wan began to wonder whether it was the Council that had lost its way.

It was a dreadful time for such a thought.

The Force shifted. Someone was outside the door of the security office that Obi-Wan had commandeered for the transmission. Obi-Wan raised his hand as a precaution.

"End transmission," Master Windu's voice said, and the blue column disappeared.

The door signal chimed. The face on the monitor was Eirtaé's. Obi-Wan gave himself a moment to breathe, to let go, before he stepped outside to meet her.

Calm, clear-eyed, the Handmaiden had a poise about her that could almost have been Jedi. It helped him regain his equilibrium.

"Eirtaé?"

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Master Jedi, but Senator Amidala is very concerned that you are upset with her. I think we should talk this through before we try to actually travel anywhere together. It would save us all time _and_ nerves."

Obi-Wan liked her directness, and wanted to smile to reassure her, but he wasn't composed enough yet.

"There is nothing to discuss. I have confirmed our plans with the Jedi Council. We can leave any time. The sooner the better."

The Handmaiden studied him openly, without haste. Up close, her eyes were a mix of gold flecked with green. In appearance, she was quite unlike other Naboo of Obi-Wan's acquaintance. So, it seemed, was her temperament.

"Are there hard feelings between us, Master Jedi?"

"None." It was absolutely true. After the distressing conversation he'd just had with Masters Yoda and Windu, Obi-Wan had a lot more to worry about than Padmé Amidala's impulsiveness and high-handed intransigence.

"I will hold you to that."

To Obi-Wan's surprise, the Handmaiden's calm voice took on a subtly forceful undertone - a modulation designed to win compliance. He wondered where she'd gotten her training. Her vocal inflection was excellent, well controlled and well delivered.

"Understood," he agreed, as curious as he was surprised. "Shall we go?"

"Absolutely, Master Jedi." A glimmer of humor played around Eirtaé's mouth. "After you."

"No, after you."

"Oh, but I insist, Master Jedi. After you." The silken statement concealed an iron hook.

Obi-Wan considered her for a long moment, with growing incredulity. "Your Voice Command is very well done. But surely you don't expect it to work on a Jedi?"

The Handmaiden's eyes lit up, even while her face remained calm. "Of course not, Master Jedi. I use every opportunity to practice. In fact, I was hoping to fail miserably, and thereby to entice you into giving me some instruction, as I am largely self-taught."

"Are you ndeed." For a moment Obi-Wan was taken aback, torn between interest and disapproval. The Jedi arts were not to be taken lightly. Still, her challenge lightened his spirit a little, and he once again felt in command of himself.

He gestured toward the door in a way that did not invite dissention. "After _you_, Handmaiden Eirtaé."

A tiny dimple formed on her cheek when she smiled. Graciously she yielded, and preceded him back to the Senator's apartment.

Padmé's dizziness and weakness grew rapidly worse. Soon the nausea returned, wracking her body and blinding her mind to anything but the pain. She was conscious of Rhea's worried face hovering over her, and of being hauled to the fresher, and of the fervent wish, repeated over and over again like a mindless prayer _... let it stop, let it stop, let it please just stop..._ Between bouts of virulence and violent tremors, she heard snatches of conversation without really understanding them.

"_... she is too ill to move! We have to get her to a medical facility NOW!"_

"_Keeping her here is just as dangerous, if not more so. We MUST take her off planet..."_

"_I will not let you kill her!"_

"_Nor I you, Handmaiden! There is a way, but we must hurry..."_

When it got so bad that Padmé thought she could endure no more, there was blessed relief at last – some kind of a MedDroid, she thought through her haze – things attached to her arm, the shapes of people moving around her; and then rest, and blessed oblivion...

The next time she woke it was in a small, dimly lit room that looked vaguely like a medicenter. An unfamiliar face loomed over her, frightening her, because her vision was blurred and she couldn't quite make it out. She tried to speak, to protest, but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

"_... here,"_ an unknown voice said, a woman's voice, even though it had a deep rasp, "_drink this..."_ Someone lifted her head and shoulders, and something cool and sweet flowed into her mouth. She swallowed, and then again, and again, desperate for the drink, and after that, there was nothing again, nothing but occasional bouts of brightness, and voices saying things she couldn't quite grasp...

"_... a self-replicating toxin. It hadn't fully cleared out of her system, so it came back worse than before. Nasty stuff, I saw more than enough of it on Raxus Prime, back in the border wars..."_

It was a stranger's voice; she couldn't place it. Padmé struggled briefly against unconsciousness, but quickly lost the skirmish.

"_... she has slept for two days... is there any sign...?"_

"_... not yet, Missy. Let her be. The machine's doing its job, and so am I..."_

The voices faded in and out. So did Padmé. Finally, she began to hear words, clusters of them, which made some kind of sense.

" _... orbiting at an altitude of..."_

"_... we're here, and she is still not conscious..."_

"_... we will keep her safely on the ship until it is possible to move her..."_

"_... not now, Artoo!..."_

"_... reinforcements meeting us at the spaceport..."_

"_... Tatooine..."_

"_...Tatooine..."_

_Tatooine. _She knew what that was. Slowly, Padmé floated to the surface of her consciousness, struggling to put the drifting pieces of her memory together. She became aware of the outlines of her body, the rawness in her throat, and the burning behind her eyes when she opened them, blinking to clear the haze.

When it did clear, she was at eye level with a strong face with high cheekbones, a square jaw, and dark green eyes surrounded by a web of fine lines in the tanned skin. The face was familiar only in the sense that she remembered having seen it before, and hadn't known who it was then, either.

"Welcome back, Missy," the familiar-sounding voice rasped. "Your timing's spot-on."

"Who are you?" Padmé croaked, vaguely surprised that her voice actually worked.

"Your medic. Call me Dax. Bet you're thirsty."

"Oh, Gods, yes." Padmé's mouth felt like she'd tried to swallow a fur glove.

Dax slid one strong-looking arm under her pillow and lifted Padmé's head and shoulders until she could drink more of that sweet whatever-it-was. Only a little went down her chin. When she'd had her fill, Dax laid her down again, and Padmé found that her vision had improved.

"Where am I?" Her voice sounded a little better, too, at least to her own ears.

"Sick bay of the transport ship _Veritas."_

"Ah." Padmé shifted restlessly, trying out the various moving parts of her body. Her arms and legs felt like lead weights until the pins and needles started. She squirmed.

"We'll get you moving soon enough, but for now you've gotta stay still, unless you want the sick to come back."

Padmé stayed still. Her mouth seemed to work, though.

"I heard someone say 'Tatooine.'"

"Yep. In orbit. Waiting for docking instructions."

Padmé let go a deep sigh. She didn't remember boarding a ship. She didn't remember much of anything since her one-sided conversation with Obi-Wan. The more her head cleared, the more baffled she became.

"So... who _are_ you? I mean, how did you come to be..."

"Your medic? Good question." The woman called Dax swiveled around to check the readouts on a looming MedDroid, revealing close-cropped blond hair much lighter than her tanned skin, a strong, creased neck, and shoulders worthy of a pit fighter. "Happened kind of fast. That Jedi hired me. Bought out my contract with Senate MediCenter and offered me a new one." Dax adjusted something on the panel and swiveled back to Padmé. "A short-term exclusive, starting immediately, for twice the credits that I'd make in a year, and a gag clause so tight it made my eyes bug out when I signed."

"But you signed."

"Damn straight I did."

"Mmm ... that feels good," Padmé murmured, feeling herself relax.

"A little cocktail I invented. Helps with re-entry after a long period with the lights out."

All of Padmé's aches and pains began to slip away. "Why'd you sign?" she murmured.

"Let's just say it was time."

The door to the small sick bay slid open with a gentle hiss, and Eirtaé's face appeared behind Dax's.

"My Lady, you're awake!"

"Tatooine," Padmé murmured lazily, her face relaxing into a smile. "You got us to Tatooine. Don't know how you managed..."

"It wasn't me alone, My Lady. If it hadn't been for the Jedi..."

But Padmé already had drifted into a light, easy sleep.

Anakin's ship was ready to go. It didn't look any prettier than it had before, but mechanically it was in far better shape. Smugglers liked Corellian YT-700's because they tolerated endless amounts of tinkering and modification. Anakin had spent a lot of time ripping out previous add-ons that he found inelegant and inefficient. When he was done, he had simplified the old freighter considerably, and improved engine output by a substantial percentage. Its navicomputer was practically new. The forward shields, which had been fried in some kind of a blast, were at a hundred percent again. Its cockpit no long smelled as if something had died in there.

"You gonna name her?" Kit asked. "A ship should have a name."

"Nothing comes to mind." Anakin didn't have much feeling for the ship one way or another. To him, it was just transport. _It_, not _she._

"How about 'Desert Queen'?" Kit suggested, with a grand gesture that he imagined to be courtly. He was quite proud of the work they had done on the old freighter.

"How about not?" Anakin muttered, tightening a bolt with an unnecessarily fierce yank at the idea of naming an ugly old ship after a Queen.

Jobs had been given out. Owen was nominally in charge, but Remy had been given the real work of holding the desert pirates' operations together. The men understood this. They would give Owen the respect, but follow Remy's lead. Everyone knew how it worked. It didn't need to be explained.

Compromises had been hashed out. Anakin's original intention had been to go off unfettered by schedules or promises. His posse had fought him on that so bitterly that in the end, Remy had installed a subspace relay panel in the ridge above the cave, and Anakin had agreed, with a sinking heart, to a regular schedule of brief communications. Just so they would know he was all right.

Goodbyes had been said. Even though Anakin had insisted over and over again that his trip was only a brief hop, that he would be back in no time, a funereal pall hung over the cave, the cantina, and even the farm. Cliegg remained gruff to Anakin's face, but behind his back could be caught looking around at his holdings as if realizing for the first time what he actually owed to the boy. Shmi had been very brave, but for a little while she had clung to him in a way that made Anakin's heart ache.

"I'll be back, I'll be back," he'd murmured over and over again. "You know I will."

"Go," she'd mumbled, trying not to cling. "Go."

Just before dawn on the day of Anakin's departure, the docking bay (one of the big ones, meant for a much larger ship) was full of unusually silent people who milled and shuffled around while Anakin went through his final checklist. The shabby protocol droid stood uncertainly at the base of the ship's ramp until finally Anakin beckoned, and it made its way carefully up the steep incline into the unfamiliar place.

When the droid was inside, Anakin paused in the open hatch. Below him was a sea of upturned faces, expecting, perhaps some words of wisdom or... something. He wasn't quite sure what they expected. He never had been. All he wanted was to get on with his journey, but their need clutched at him with invisible hands.

He took a breath and looked around at the crowd. "I won't be long. You know what to do. Look after things. And each other." Then quickly, with a brief wave of his hand, he ducked inside the ship and shut the hatch.

Inside the dimly lit ship, he felt himself breathing out at last, a long, slow emptying, like an overturned flask draining slowly into the sand.

The old ship's starting roar sent most of the onlookers scurrying away, which was a good thing, because her huge engines created some nasty blowback.

Owen, Remy and most of the others took that as their cue to go about their business. Only Lupie and Kit lingered at the spaceport, idle and unsettled, so that not long after, they were the only ones to see a sleek new blue and white cruiser - a pretty fancy one – sink onto the same duracrete platform that Anakin had just left. It was a much larger ship, and newer, so it landed quietly, with a restrained rumble and the sharp hiss of exhaust. They lingered for a while, mildly curious because it was a transport rather than a cargo ship, but mostly because they didn't have anything better to do. When, after a long wait, nobody came out, they decided somewhat randomly to head back to the cantina after all.

They were crossing the plaza when Lupie looked up.

"Kit, wait!" He pointed at the silver arrow in the sky. The way the morning sun caught it, they had to shade their eyes.

"There's another one of those ... whaddaya callit ... Naboo ships! It's gotta be!"

"Look at that!"

The arrow circled the spaceport like a feather on the wind before beginning to settle gently. Even as far away as the plaza, they could hear the low-register vibrations of landing thrusters as it sank toward the spaceport.

"Come on!" Lupie yelled, but Kit was already running. Two ships like that inside of a week? What was going on?

"The tower!" Kit called. It was the highest vantage point in the spaceport, used by the dockmaster. They wouldn't be able to get inside those offices, but as former Mos Espa street rats, they knew the best hiding places on the roof. It just took some scrambling.

By the time they'd secured their perch overlooking the side of the spaceport where the transports docked, the silver arrow had settled into a smaller berth three bays away from the big blue and white ship. They were rewarded for their hard climb when the silver ship's hatch opened, and out walked...

"Hey, that looks like those two..."

"That's HER!" Lupie yelped, beyond excited. "She's BACK!"

The young desert men watched breathlessly as the small, dark-haired woman and her familiar, dark bodyguard walked off their ship and made their way straight to the big blue-and white one. The hatch of the larger ship opened and a gangplank lowered to admit them. But to Lupie's utter disappointment, and Kit's growing impatience, the blue and white ship's hatch closed again as soon as they were inside.

Lupie and Kit waited a long time, but nothing else happened. The ships just sat there, promising all kinds of interesting things to come.

"I wish Anakin was here to see this," Lupie said wistfully, when they finally clambered down again.

"Yeah," Kit sighed. "Me, too."

The listlessness that had settled over them with Anakin's departure returned. They wandered through the familiar streets of Mos Espa, more or less in the direction of the cantina, but without any particular sense of hurry.

Kit stopped at one of the stalls on the plaza to flirt with the girl who sold beads and bangles made from local stones like breyl and japor. Lupie lingered nearby for a while, then got bored and wandered over to gossip with the pot-seller, who was a neighbor of his mother's.

A low, teeth-rattling vibration, almost subsonic, made the necklace in Kit's hands jingle. The stacked pots in front of Lupie shivered metallically. They both looked up.

There, straight overhead, was the white underbelly of the blue-and-white cruiser. She was taking off so low that the even the old stones in the plaza felt the vibration from her antigravs.

She wasn't lifting off into space. She was leveling off and flying out toward the desert.

Kit dropped the necklace he was playing with and sprinted toward Lupie, who was already running toward the cantina. No words were needed. Suddenly, they had something new to think about.

A goal.

A mission, even.

"Looks like they're heading over toward the Wastes," Lupie panted.

"It's a big desert. They could be going anywhere. But we'll find 'em."

They ran on, once again men with a purpose. Hopefully, they'd have a LOT of news for Anakin when he got back...

The feeling rose up unexpectedly: a gradual lightening, a leavening, the lifting of a weight that was more then mere gravity.

The small ship shot upward and outward, its view screens flaming with the burnt orange and gold of the desert planet, then gradually darkening to the unbroken night beyond. As layers of atmosphere peeled away, thinning to transparency and then disappearing entirely, it seemed to Anakin that the many layers of his life were being stripped away as well, leaving him to face the star-strewn blackness ahead unencumbered, bare, pared down to the essentials of thought and senses and being.

_Free,_ in other words.

He hadn't thought that he would feel so incredibly relieved.

He glanced at the protocol droid that sat rigidly in the companion seat, its immobile face seeming to express shock.

"You all right, Threepio?"

"Oh, Master Ani. I haven't traveled into space before. I haven't travelled anywhere."

"Sometimes I feel the same way." Anakin studied the controls and above all the nav. computer's readout. Everything seemed to be as it should. They were on track to their destination, which would only require a short lightspeed hop in ... Anakin checked the chrono ... a quarter-standard hour. He double-checked his computations for the jump, set an alarm just in case, and then allowed himself to lean back and look out into the universe.

_I'm alone out here,_ he thought. _No one tugging at me, watching everything I do, needing and wanting things from me ... I could go anywhere, do anything..._

He glanced at Threepio, who looked utterly out of place folded awkwardly into the seat that was meant for a co-pilot, and sighed. _Well, almost anything._ With every bolt and plate, every sensor and every dent, the old droid reminded Anakin of home and of his obligations to those who waited for him. He honestly didn't understand why his mother had insisted on saddling him with Threepio on this journey.

'Threepio, has Mom added anything to your programming recently?"

"Why, no, Sir!" The droid's round 'eyes' turned to him. "She has made no modifications at all. Is there ... is there a problem, Master Ani?"

"No. No problem."

It didn't make sense. If he'd thought about it sooner, he could have salvaged an astromech. Something useful. In fact, he should have. But good old Threepio ... he wasn't an asset, he was a burden.

Almost time for the jump to hyperspace. Tatooine was no more than a tiny mark on the Navscreen. All hesitation had fallen away; Anakin couldn't wait to try his first jump on his own. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Threepio raise his head and lower it again, as if trying to comprehend his surroundings.

"Threepio, how about if I switch you off for the journey? There's nothing for you to do."

"Oh, yes, Master Ani, ... that would be ... pleasant."

"Stand over here. I'll strap you in." Anakin got up, helped maneuver Threepio to a narrow space behind the seats that just accommodated his height, and switched him off. He found some cargo netting to secure the droid just in case, and sank more happily back into the pilot's seat.

That was better. With the co-pilot's seat empty, he could finally imagine himself alone.

The alarm chimed. Anakin took a deep breath, grasped the hyperdrive control, and pulled it back. The small ship kicked briefly and the stars exploded.

Anakin was glad that Threepio wasn't awake. He didn't want to have to explain the yell of pure joy that tore out of him when his guts mashed into the seat.

And then ... and then ... there was the Silence.

That was the second thing that surprised Anakin. Long ago, traveling as a child on a ship full of people, he hadn't noticed it. In the skew of hyperspace – that place of not-time and not-space, where reality was compressed into a kind of pseudomotion – it seemed as if the Force itself was silent. Only the familiar spark of his own being continued its elemental pulse.

Silence.

Silence.

SILENCE.

Everything was gone. The universe was gone. Anakin had never experienced such depths of solitude. It seemed that only he existed, and after a while, he wasn't sure even about that.

Anakin endured it – the emptiness, the absence, the sense that the Force itself had disappeared – for an eternity.

At the end of the jump, the impervious construct that was the YT-700 gave the proper signals, engaged the necessary series of actions, and with a last jolt, everted to realspace as if nothing untoward had happened.

Its sole human passenger sat glued to his seat, bathed in sweat. He studied the new stars around him with fierce concentration, willing himself back into a state of some kind of normalcy. _Breathe, _a voice that sounded like Obi-Wan's whispered in his memory, and he did.

Through the sweat that dripped into his eyes he saw in the far distance a tiny, perfect sphere, glowing copper in the light of an alien sun. Willing his muscles to move, he rubbed the sweat out of his eyes and checked the navicomputer. That was it. His destination. He had been underway for only hours - less than a day back on Tatooine – and yet, he was in a place where Tatooine might was well not exist.

The spirit of adventure returned full force. _I should have done this long ago. I don't know what stopped me..._

The third thing that surprised Anakin was what he sensed once he everted to realspace. Empty though this part of space was, and as alone as he surely was, as he drew closer to the artificial planetoid, the Force shimmered with the sense of a presence – a human presence – of such power that it seemed to fill all of the space between them. _One_ presence. But what a presence. In some ways, it seemed achingly familiar.

Anakin shook out his numb limbs, dried his neck and face on a cloth, and ran his fingers through his hair once or twice in a half-hearted attempt to look tidy. Once again, he was just a young man in an old ship, seeking counsel from one much greater than he.

He still didn't know why Count Dooku had agreed to see him, but here he was. And so, it seemed, was the Count of Serenno.

He went to unlatch the netting around the droid.

"Wake up, Threepio. We're here."


	9. Chapter 8 Arrivals

**Chapter 8. Arrivals**

"Wait just a minute. Whatdya think youre doing?"

Dax barely came up to Obi-Wan's chin in height, but her broad shoulders filled the doorway to the _Veritas_ small sick bay, effectively blocking it.

"I need to speak with her, Dax."

Dax didn't move. "She's still sleepin'."

"I'm sorry. I need you to wake her." Obi-Wan leaned a little closer. "I _know_ that she is much better. You have done a good job."

Dax glared at him. Thought it over. Said, "Wait here."

The door slid shut in Obi-Wans face. It was a while before it slid open again, admitting him at last.

The sickbed took up the center of the cabin. Padme was propped up in bed looking rested and even faintly rosy. Beside her, the thick pillar of the MedDroid rose up like a fat tree trunk, its multiple appendages arched over the bed like a canopy of branches. Obi-Wan stood opposite the MedDroid with his arms tucked into his sleeves, looking quite humorless. Dax lurked behind it, pretending to be busy.

"This looks serious," Padme joked feebly. "Am I in trouble?"

"No more than the rest of us."

Padme rubbed her forehead tiredly. "I'm sorry, Obi-Wan."

"It is time to talk strategy, Senator. We have reached our destination. We have landed the ship in a defensible position on the outskirts of the town of Mos Espa. For the moment, we have enough berths on board to accommodate our entire party, and supplies enough for several days. Handmaiden Vesp and Lieutenant Danil Panaka have joined us from Tatooine, as you arranged."

"I promised you more bodyguards, Obi-Wan, and here they are."

"Good. Together with Captain Typho's team, we have enough personnel to send out exploratory parties while still safeguarding you and, of course, the ship. Pirates and scavengers abound on this planet."

Still too woozy from whatever Dax had given her to exert control over her face, Padme smiled.

"Senator? Something amuses you?"

"No," Padme said hastily. "Please go on."

"Very well. The _Veritas _is not a suitable long term residence for a group of this size."

"Long term...?" Padme murmured.

"We don't know how long we must stay here, Senator. By any chance, did your arrangements for this journey include advance planning for lodgings and other logistics?"

"No," Padme admitted meekly.

"Do you anticipate making any such arrangements?"

Padme tried to be conciliatory. "I will be happy to leave the further planning to you, Master Kenobi."

"You are certain?"

"Yes."

"No more surprises?"

Padme sighed. "No more surprises."

"Do I have your word on that, My Lady?"

"Yes!" Padme groaned. "You have my word!"

Dax stepped forward to tap Obi-Wan on the shoulder. "Enough, Jedi."

Obi-Wan kept looking at Padme. "I assume that you would like to visit with your staff now. After that, I need to see everyone in the refectory for assignments and scheduling in one standard hour."

"Aye, General!" Padme hiccupped and threw him a salute.

Obi-Wan's expression remained stern, but there might – by a considerable stretch of the imagination – have been a weary glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "I am glad that you are feeling better, Senator.""

On his way out, he glanced sideways at the hovering medic. I want you at the meeting too, Dax."

"Aye, General," she replied easily. Mercifully, she didn't salute.

"Obi-Wan isn't very happy with me," Padme said to Eirtae later. "We're back to 'Senator' and 'My Lady'."

"You don't make things easy for him. You can't imagine what he had to do to get us all here ... how quickly he acted when your illness became worse..."

Padme closed her eyes. "Do you think I'm a fool?"

"For coming here?"

"Among other things."

Silence drifted between the faint ongoing noises produced by the MedDroid.

"You know the old saying. It is human nature to think wisely and act foolishly," Eirtae said at last.

"But what if I am _thinking_ foolishly?"

Eirtae smiled faintly. "Then you must at all costs act wisely."

"Hah. I can't take action at all. Not without clearing it with Obi-Wan. I just promised him that from now on, all the decisions are his to make."

"That isn't necessarily a bad thing."

Padme looked at her Handmaiden. _Really_ looked at her. "Indeed."

"I will speak to him about your wishes, if you like." Eirtae picked at the bedclothes, not looking up.

"Indeed," Padme murmured again. This time, she kept her thoughts to herself.

The rain of clicks and whistles pouring over Dooku's ears grew more impassioned, the more furiously the Geonosian aristocrat in the _Serenas_ viewscreen waved his jewel-encrusted staff.

_Tedious, tedious, tedious._

"Calm yourself, my friend. Nute Gunray always gets excitable when things don't go his way. His threats spread like clouds of dust, but blow away just as easily. He is with us. The Trade Federation will not renege, no matter what he says. They would not dare."

Another flood of insect language followed, punctuated by more staff-waving. Dooku tuned most of it out, preserving his focus for only the essentials.

"I regret that I am unable to come sooner than we arranged. There are some matters that I must attend to first."

That wasn't entirely true. The other activity Dooku had in mind – the meeting with Skywalker – was far less important than the gathering on Geonosis. But it suited him to leave the Geonosian waiting. Poggle the Lesser needed to learn that Dooku was not at his beck and call; that in fact, it needed to be the other way around. The plans for war were rapidly reaching a climax, and Dooku's time and attention would soon be required elsewhere.

The insectoid trills doubled in volume. The conversation was going nowhere. Dooku ended it as quickly as possible while still retaining some grace.

In the welcome silence that ensued, he went to stand in his favorite thinking place – in the great bowed window that opened his study on the _Serena _to the stars_. _When he stood all the way out in the center of the curved transparisteel wall, it felt as if he were flying alone through the spaces between things – a physical feeling akin to the inner experience of meditation.

Once again, Amidala of Naboo had escaped the death that had been arranged for her, rendering Nute Gunray apoplectic. When the first two attempts on the Naboo Senators life had failed, Gunray had sputtered and railed and flung around demands. This time, he was threatening to leave the Confederacy entirely, taking all of his resources with him.

Whatever the outspoken young Senator from the Naboo system did or did not do was a matter of indifference to Dooku, but her death was Gunray's price for the Trade Federations membership in the Confederacy of Independent States. Dooku had approved the first assassination attempt, assisted with the second, and when that too had failed, had personally arranged the third. And yet she still lived, a continuing and considerable annoyance. Gunray was becoming impossible.

What bothered Dooku most about all this, what drove him to the grand bay window of his luxury yacht in search of some distance and perspective, was the nagging thought that in one sense – in one very real sense – he was indirectly responsible for the third failure.

After the second attempt on the Senator's life, the Jedi had assigned her protection. He should have known that the third attempt was unlikely to succeed. After all, her protector was, in the ineffable way of the Force, his own legacy. His heir.

_Obi-Wan Kenobi, who was trained by Qui-Gon Jinn, who was trained by Sar Dooku... _

As surely as a bloodline extends through generations of flesh, the bond between Jedi teacher and student left an imprint as distinct as any genetic code, provided one had the acuity to discern it. Dooku had spent the last decade learning to free himself from his Jedi training and influences, but his Force signature still carried within it the impression – like a watermark - of his own Jedi Master. Despite his best efforts, it seemed that Yoda would just not go away.

"You still stink of the Jedi," Sidious had sneered the last time they met. "What is it, Lord Tyrannus, that prevents you from finally obliterating these old ties?"

"I am persuaded that I have eradicated them, Master," Dooku had answered mildly. "My ties to the Jedi are long gone."

Sidious had snorted derisively. "Your Force signature says otherwise. As long as you cling to any part of your former self, you will never live up to your potential."

All these months later, staring out at starry space from behind his bowed window wall, the memory still filled him with dread. It was unwise to challenge Sidious, and it was downright dangerous to disappoint him. And clearly he, Sar Dooku, a great among the Jedi, was a disappointment to his Sith Master, and had been since the beginning. He was no Maul. He was neither a mindless lackey nor an unmitigated destroyer. He was not, and would never become, an unthinking extension of his Master's will.

But then, that had not been the basis for their association. Not at first. Sidious had approached him first in the guise of Palpatine; political philosopher, sympathizer with Dooku's outrage about the Republic's descent into corruption, and stanch friend to a Jedi struggling with a profound crisis of conscience about his Order's refusal to evolve with the times. And what a friendship it had been, while it lasted! To this day, Dooku missed the heady thrill of that rare concordance (however false it had turned out to be) between like-minded spirits who shared high ideals and the profound belief in a higher calling.

But of course, Palpatine had turned out to be more (infinitely more) than he seemed. And Dooku... well, even then, Dooku no longer had possessed the heart of a Jedi. How could he have, with such doubts, such anger, such a rebellious spirit? Palpatine had slipped into the fissures in Dooku's life as a Jedi, had fueled his misgivings, and had helped him to crystallize his thinking...

_... and then Qui-Gon Jinn was destroyed, and with him, the last of my love for the Order..._

A signal chimed musically, dragging him out of his contemplations. He had allowed his thoughts to drift. That was a mistake. If he wanted to survive, he must always, without fail, remain fully present and aware.

The proof of this truth was in the Force, which he only at that moment realized was full of new information. A living being with a massive Force presence was nearby, and he had been so far away in his thoughts that he had not detected the instant of the newcomer's arrival.

_Foolish old man, _he berated himself._ Have you been alone so long that you seek in the past for companionship?_

"Your shuttle is ready, Sir," a droid voice announced.

"Bring on the warlord, whoever he may be," Dooku said aloud to the empty chamber.

The diversion was most welcome.

Faced with a stay of unknown duration on a planet he barely knew, solely responsible for safeguarding nearly a dozen lives, and with an impossible-seeming mission to fulfill, Obi-Wan retreated to the desert beyond the _Veritas_ to think.

From his vantage point near the top of a high, wide dune, the town of Mos Espa gave the horizon a jagged edge. Below him, the coarse golden sand undulated like a broad sea, its surface rippled from the prevailing southeastern winds. Tatooine's twin suns hung high and white-hot in a sky so blue that it hurt.

_...go to Tatooine. Study your surroundings and the people you encounter. Meditate on them. Follow whatever directions, whatever connections, are shown to you by the Force.._

Well, here he was. With one knee pressed into the shifting firmament and the other bent to support one arm, Obi-Wan sifted hot sand through his fingers and took stock of his and resources.

... One seriously ill Senator with a death mark on her head, requiring day and night medical care and protection.

... One competent-seeming medic with good references, but of unknown loyalty, and a shining new T-1020 MedDroid, purchased and brought along at Dax's request.

...One teenaged Handmaiden, probably more suited to providing personal services to the Senator than for protection.

... A pair of bodyguards recently arrived from Tatooine; one a Palace guard on special assignment (son of the courageous and highly competent Captain Panaka), and another Handmaiden whose looks made her well suited as a decoy for Senator Amidala.

... Captain Typho, the deeply loyal and tough-minded Captain of the Senator's security team, and four of his best guards.

... And of course, one Handmaiden of wit and maturity, who behaved more like Padme's partner than as staff. Eirtae was the only person to whom the stubborn Senator ever deferred.

Resting his chin on his raised knee, Obi-Wan let a handful of sand run through his fingers, and another, and another.

It didn't help that ghosts from the past were with him in the flesh, their paths once again twined with his. Behind him in the ship was the same young Queen as ten years before; grown and changed, but still duplicitous, still stubborn, and again in need of aid. With her was the nephew of the clever, fiercely loyal Captain Panaka, with whom Obi-Wan once had stood on a spot very much like this one, mulling over the coming storm.

It didn't help that in this place, thoughts of Qui-Gon surged back stronger and sweeter than at any time since his death. It was as if the sand had stored his Master's memory fresh and new, only to release it now, all at once, full force. Obi-Wan could practically see Qui-Gon Jinn striding away from the ship, his long hair blowing in the desert wind like the strings on his poncho, his shoulders broad and straight against the challenges ahead.

Obi-Wan's frame had always been slighter than his Master's. Learning to fight, to move, to think, he had acquired speed, accuracy, and even guile from the relentless challenge presented by Qui-Gon's overwhelming strength and will. And when, as his last act, his beloved Master had demanded that he take on the boy whom he had proclaimed the Chosen One, Obi-wan had not been able to refuse, despite his misgivings.

Qui-Gon had believed in the prophecy, and in the boy, with all his heart. Obi-Wan had never shared his certainty. And yet...

_Of all the places in the Galaxy, why Tatooine, Masters?_

_Because, Obi-Wan, your former Padawan is there. All the paths we were shown begin with him._

Obi-Wan began to dig a hole in the sand, pawing and clawing out the coarse golden grains. He had to dig deep to find the cooler sand below. His arm had disappeared into the hole nearly up to his shoulder before he finally, reassuringly, felt the faint cool moisture beneath. Contained deep within this unlivable planet was the means for sustaining life.

Qui-Gon had always insisted that contained within every problem, no matter how intractable, lay its solution.

Obi-Wan withdrew a handful of the cooler sand from the bottom of the hole and studied it. What little moisture it contained was evenly dispersed throughout the substance in miniscule quantities, undetectable without the clues of temperature and texture. Tatooine's moisture farmers spent lifetimes coaxing droplets of precious water from the ground. It took not only resolve, but also faith; faith that the water existed, and faith that in time, it would yield its substance to the farmers resolve.

_...explore, if you can, the paths that the Force seems to obscure..._

If Qui-Gon's assertion about Anakin was true, and if the Jedi Council had seen rightly, then Tatooine was the right place for him to search. And if Qui-Gon's teaching about problem solving was also right, as so many of his teachings had been, then Obi-Wan needed to get to work like a moisture farmer; patiently eking that which was necessary out of that which was given.

He pushed the piles of rapidly drying sand back into the hole and smoothed it over. Visualizing Qui-Gon Jinn as vividly as if his Master still stood before him, Obi-Wan closed his eyes; calmed his spirit, and plunged into the living Force.

It was well that he took the opportunity. It would be a long time before he again had the time and peace to meditate deeply. Already he was being watched. Discussed. Appraised.

Just before his precious hour alone was up, Obi-Wan opened his eyes, stood up and brushed the sand from his clothes. He knew a few things that he hadn't known before. Most importantly, he knew that Anakin was gone from Tatooine.

As Dooku neared the abandoned mining planetoid SecLanThree, the sense of presence became overpowering. The colony had been shut down nearly a decade before, but Dooku had seen to it that a minimum level of life support remained available and could be reactivated at a moment's notice. The senium ore was still plentiful, and extraction would re-start as soon as the new refining facility on the neighboring planet was finished. The war effort would require a seamless, fully integrated production cycle – one that lay entirely in CIS hands.

When Dooku's sailship folded its golden canopy and slowed to a stop on the rusted landing platform, the ambient lighting had already been activated. His guest had landed. In the shadows at the far end, an old ship without distinguishing markings, a smugglers ship, by the look of it, steamed like a sweating pack animal come to rest.

Wrapping himself in caution, Dooku walked down the sailship's ramp and across the rusting platform with a measured step. On the far side, movement indicated that his visitor was exiting his ship as well.

When he could see the warlord clearly, Dooku stopped abruptly. It was hard to believe his eyes at first.

There was a boy standing on the landing platform in front of the old ship, looking around as if he had never seen a place like it before. He was alone but for a desperately shabby protocol droid by his side.

_... A boy...!_

... who stared at him, but said nothing. Dooku searched through the Force for others, but found only one life form – the one whose power he had sensed on the _Serena_.

Doubting his own instincts, but never the Force, Dooku stepped forward.

"Anakin Skywalker?"

"Count Dooku of Serenno?"

The boy also took a step forward, and another, and then, after some thought, another. He was tall and slender. His clothes were shabby, his hair untamed. But it wasn't his outer appearance that held Dookus attention, or even the surprise of his extreme youth. It was the way the Force refracted around him, like sunlight off a poorly polished jewel; blinding in places, but veined with shadows.

The boy's Force potential was enormous, but he was no Jedi. Nor did he remotely resemble a demanding warlord. Whoever he was - _whatever_ he was - the boy seemed unsure of himself. Hesitant. Even... Dooku checked his perceptions again... _grateful?_

When they stood opposite one another, the boy cleared his throat. "Thank you for seeing me. I know you have little time to spare."

"You are holding one of my operatives hostage," Dooku snapped with just the right touch of outrage. He didn't care in the slightest, but it was necessary to play the part.

Skywalker seemed to waver. "Is that what he said?" Unexpectedly, the shadow of a smile flitted across his features. "The old crook. I only gave him an ultimatum. He was supposed to arrange this meeting (the boy looked around as if not quite believing he was there), or I'd have him shipped off planet. Quite honestly, I didn't think he'd be able to deliver."

That certainly wasn't the response Dooku had anticipated. _"You _have the authority to banish my operative from your planet?"

"The authority ... no." The boy seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "I have... some influence, I suppose."

Modesty? _Modesty?_ It was so unexpected that Dooku had to reconsider his entire approach. Whatever he had expected Skywalker to be, this mild-mannered, Force-imbued boy (... on consideration, Dooku adjusted his assessment slightly to _young man_...) was the furthest thing from it. And he was certainly no kind of a threat.

So Wieeder had lied to Skywalker as well. That was of no consequence. The young man before him took pains to tell the truth. That _was _of consequence.

"Well, then, Skywalker, against all odds, you have achieved your meeting with me. What is it that you want?"

The young man hesitated. Having achieved his goal, with the path cleared for him to state his wishes, he remained silent, and yet the Force around him surged with some deep-seated emotion. He wanted something. Wanted it desperately. It occurred to Dooku to wonder whether he had the slightest idea how much the Force revealed about him.

"You were a Jedi once." Skywalker said at last. He cleared his throat again, a tiny sound that masked powerful feelings. "That's what they say."

_Is that what he wants to see? A Jedi? _More curious than ever, and quite certain that he had nothing to lose by the admission, Dooku assured his young guest, "So I was. For most of my life."

Something burned brightly in the boy. The Force around him leaped and flashed.

"Did you know ... did you know Master Qui-Gon Jinn?"

It was only then that Dooku saw it. The mark in the Force. The imprint. The indelible path of succession. _He has Qui-Gon's mark all over him!_

He had not noticed it before because the boy was so poorly trained, if he had received any Jedi training at all. His Force signature, while powerful, was random at best, like something found in nature. But when had this ... this _connection _happened, if Qui-Gon had been fully engaged in training Obi-Wan Kenobi until his death?

_Ah, the mysterious ways of the Force!_ It was not by chance that Dooku had been reflecting on his legacy. It was no accident that Wieeder's message had arrived at its destination. It was not, after all, surprising that the boy was here.

Dooku was utterly certain that the next words he said had the power to open a new path. He did not yet know where it might lead. He only knew that he wanted very much to explore it.

"I knew Qui-Gon Jinn. I loved him. I trained him." He paused, enjoying the sight of the young mans widening eyes, relishing the heart-driven surge of the Force around him. _"I_ was his Jedi Master."

Skywalker gasped, sucking in a great breath like a drowning man coming up to the surface at last.

"What is it that you want from me?" Dooku asked more gently, stirred by curiosity, alive to the shimmering of potential.

"Could you... would you... teach me?"

Something began to throb deep inside Dooku; old hopes, long buried.

"What is it that you wish to learn_?"_

"I want to learn how to use ... powers ... _Jedi_ powers..."

The throbbing intensified. Hands clasped tightly behind his back, Dooku began to pace a slow circle around the young man, studying him. Studying the Force. To his credit, Skywalker stood fast.

"Wieeder claimed that _you _are a former Jedi. Clearly you are not. What did he mean?"

"I was once accepted into the Jedi Order." Skywalker swallowed. "For a moment."

"Explain." Dooku kept pacing his slow, steady circle.

The story came out in terse, bitten-off sentences, flashes of words that left out the pain that showed up so clearly in the Force. Dooku listened and circled, occasionally interrupting with direct questions.

_...Tatooine... Qui-Gon Jinn... _(the Chosen One! Had Qui-Gon truly believed that old bit of soothsaying?)_ ...the Jedi Council's verdict ..._

"How old were you?"

"Nine."

"Continue."

_...Naboo... the Trade Federation defeated... Maul... Qui-Gon's death... _(Dooku shared a private moment of remembered grief with the young stranger, without allowing it to show) _... the funeral..._

_The funeral._ The Force flashed caution.

"Tell me everyone who was there. _Everyone_."

With nearly perfect recall, the young man described the scene of long ago with enough detail to give Dooku the feeling that he had been there after all, rather than on the opposite side of the Galaxy on a Jedi mission designed (he later decided) to keep him away.

_... the pyre... the cloaked Jedi... Obi-Wan's vow ... _

There it was! There was no question. Qui-Gon had been the boy's true Master. The bond had been so strong that, facing death, he had thrust the boy onto his Padawan ... his legacy...

Skywalker continued with his tale. _The Queen... Senator Palpatine..._

It was Dooku's turn to gasp, although of course he did not. He showed nothing of the emotions that left him nearly breathless. Not only had the boy crossed paths with Gunray and Amidala, but Palpatine had attended Qui-Gon's funeral!_ Sidious knows about this boy. He never told me. He deliberately never told me about him..._

What happened when you joined the Jedi?

_... Beginning training... the Councils rejection... Obi-Wans betrayal ... the return to Tatooine..._

Dooku could barely contain his rising excitement. Deprived of access to Qui-Gon Jinn's Jedi Padawan; deprived, since pledging himself to Darth Sidious, of an apprentice of his own by the Rule of Two, Dooku had been reduced to sharing his great store of knowledge with the abomination Grievous and poor substitutes like the utterly mad and undeserving Ventress. How he had longed for a worthy successor who was not bound by the limitations of the Jedi!

_My legacy... Mine! ... _ His blood pounded in his temples. _Could this young one give me my chance after all?_

Dooku calmed himself and stopped in front of Skywalker. The young man's upper lip was damp with perspiration, his tunic was streaked dark, and yet he still stood his ground. Wrapped tightly in the cloak of the Force to mask his agitation, Dooku held Skywalker's gaze, searched his face, and attempted to search his soul. Skywalker trembled, but even under that level of scrutiny, he held fast.

"Answer this next question carefully, Anakin Skywalker. Your hopes and dreams hang on it. _Why do you wish to learn the Jedi arts?"_

Skywalker licked his lips, but did not immediately speak. Dooku judged his silence as careful thought rather than hesitation. He was soon proven right.

"I need to know what I'm capable of," Skywalker said at last. "The Jedi left me feeling that I wasn't good enough for them. I don't understand why. I know that I'm capable of so much more..."

"What makes you think that, Anakin?"

The boy took a breath and reached into his tunic for something. A metal cylinder. _It could only be..._ Skywalker's hand clenched and the blue blade of a lightsaber leaped up between them. Dooku's heart leaped with it.

"Where did you get that?"

"I made it." Skywalker sounded defiant.

"On your own? Without instruction?"

"Yes."

The blade's tone was pure and true. It was a good effort ... certainly one worthy of an older Jedi Padawan who had benefitted from years of training.

Dooku's excitement increased._ This one could learn fast, which is essential..._

"Well, Anakin Skywalker, you have succeeded in impressing me, something which I assure you is not easily done." Dooku paced yet another slow circle around the young man, who, to his growing credit, knew enough to remain quiet. When he had completed the silent tour and collected his thoughts, Dooku said formally, "An apprenticeship is a considerable undertaking by both Master and pupil. It is a promise, a covenant, an unbreakable bond. Are you willing to undertake such a contract?"

Skywalker slanted a look at him with eyes that seemed much older than his years. "I made such a bond once, with Obi-Wan Kenobi. _He_ broke his promise." Skywalker kept his voice even, but he could not hide his bitterness.

_Good. We will make use of that.  
_

"I had many reasons for leaving the Jedi Order, Anakin. My lack of faith in the wisdom of the Jedi Council was one of them." Dooku leaned closer, the more convincingly to tell a small lie. "I have no such Masters. If I take on a student, the choice is mine and mine alone."

For the first time, Skywalker looked away. He didn't say anything for a long time, and this time his silence _was_ hesitation. The Force around him shimmered with conflicting emotions, but he stared at the floor, saying nothing.

Dooku chafed at the need to wait for the boy's answer. _The Master chooses the student,_ he reminded himself sternly. _Always, without fail, Jedi or Sith, the Master chooses the student._ This was all backwards; Skywalker had found _him_, had come to _him_, had _asked_ to be taught. Why then, when his daring request was granted, did he not leap at the opportunity?

With a great effort of will Dooku tamed his sense of urgency. He must not overplay his hand. Aside from him, there was only one other to whom the young man could go to fulfill his destiny. If his suspicions were true, he was looking at the one Darth Sidious was holding in reserve, hidden away on a forgotten planet, until the time came to replace Dooku.

By any calculation, that time had nearly arrived.

_You still stink of the Jedi,_ Sidious voice hissed in his memory. This one, Skywalker, would quickly lose any remnants of his connection with the Jedi at Sidious' hands. He had to act fast to secure Skywalker's loyalty for himself.

"I believe that you have remarkable potential," Dooku said gently into Anakins silence. "I don't know why the Jedi rejected you, but I see it as a substantial error on their part. If I trust anyone's judgment, it is Qui-Gon Jinn's. He was a great man, and a source of great pride to me. It will be my pleasure to train you in his stead."

Skywalker looked up again, his eyes wet with emotion. "I want to... thank you... I am grateful for your offer..." He took a deep breath and plunged on, "... its just that I have responsibilities." He swallowed, visibly working to keep his feelings in check. "There are a great many people who depend on me... I cant just leave them..."

All the tension left Dooku's body. Was it to be that easy after all? Were simple kindness and acknowledgement all that the young man needed? He would provide both in abundance. He would give him anything he wanted.

"I think I can ease your mind about that, Anakin. We are both busy men and have many responsibilities. Whatever work we do together must fit around those other tasks." Dooku gestured around the echoing, poorly lit landing platform. "This is a suitable place to meet an unknown adversary, but it is not the best environment for a conversation between ..." he hesitated briefly, searching for the right word," ... colleagues. My ship is nearby. Join me there. It is a much more pleasant place to discuss how we can make the time for your training." He glanced at the pitiful simulacrum of a protocol droid that had stood silently by Skywalker's side all the while. You are welcome to bring your...ah... droid, but if you were to leave it behind, we could travel there together on my shuttle.

Dooku's solar sailer gleamed softly in the domed space, a thing of beauty in a desolate space. Skywalker's eyes slid over it like a Youngling's in a sweet shop. There was appreciation in his gaze, and not a little longing. _He likes toys, _Dooku noted, adding that piece of information to the cache he already had begun to collect about his new young apprentice. Whether Skywalker knew it or not, that was what he had become.

"Thank you, but if it's all right, 'Id prefer to take my own ship. Threepio stays with me."

"As you wish," Dooku agreed graciously, despite a prickle of annoyance at Skywalker's independent-mindedness. "Follow me."

He told himself that it didn't matter that the normal rules of conduct between Master and pupil were being upturned. What mattered was the outcome. Dooku was so sure of Skywalker's potential that he didn't care how he had to go about co-opting and training him.

_Only_ the outcome mattered. _Only_ that.


	10. Chapter 9 Beginnings

**Chapter 9. Beginnings**

As soon Obi-Wan had sent the members of Padmé's entourage on their various assignments after the strategy meeting (Dax snuck off the ship for a quick cigar break when no one was looking – she hadn't had one for days, which was tough on an old soldier), Obi-Wan slipped back into the sickroom for another chat with Padmé. To ensure privacy, he had assigned all of her Handmaidens tasks that kept them away from her.

Alone but for the MedDroid, Padmé sat cross-legged on the high, narrow sickbed, so absorbed in studying a datapad that she didn't notice him until he seated himself gently at the far end of her bed.

"Oh! Obi-Wan..."

He put his fingers to his lips to silence her. "I wanted a quick word, just between the two of us."

Padmé looked at him quizzically. Her eyes were bright and clear, and she seemed much more lucid than earlier.

"Anakin isn't here."

"What do you mean?" A faint blush spread over her cheeks.

"I'll do some more checking of course, but I'm persuaded that he isn't on the planet."

For once, Padmé seemed tongue-tied.

"Padmé, I know that you were drawn here because you want to see Anakin again. I can't imagine that you would have another reason for coming to this very difficult place, so let us not continue to pretend otherwise. I am telling you that I don't sense his presence anywhere..."

"But he must be here!" she burst out at last. "I received word..." she stopped, looking acutely uncomfortable.

"I thought so," Obi-Wan said quietly. "I must know with whom you have been in contact, if I am to keep you safe."

Padmé took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," she said, sounding as though she meant it this time. "It all began the night you told me that you had... well, that Anakin didn't become a Jedi after all. I felt terribly guilty that I hadn't kept up with his progress."

Obi-Wan nodded. In retrospect, he should have known how deeply the news would affect her. Anakin had a way of making himself memorable. "Go on," he urged.

Reluctantly and somewhat sheepishly, Padmé described the request she had made of the Palace's head of security, and the emissaries that Sabé had sent to Tatooine.

"The same two who are now part of my ... our... security team?"

"Yes, Vespé and Danil."

"They didn't tell me!"

"Of course not, Obi-Wan. Not without my express order. They were asked to keep their investigation a secret. They are very loyal."

Obi-Wan sighed inwardly. It was yet another reminder how unwise it was to underestimate the Naboo. "In that case, Senator, I would be grateful if you were to give that order. I need to know everything that they know."

Then she told him about the holo-recording.

"Where is it now?" he asked sharply. "Who else has seen it?"

Padmé looked surprised at his urgency. "Only Eirtaé and Rhea ... the holo is hidden inside of Artoo..."

"I need to see it."

"Yes, of course... but, Obi-Wan, I don't understand how this business with Anakin has anything to do with the attacks on me."

"Everything matters, Padmé. Everything you and your staff know, everywhere they have been, and everyone they have spoken to." At the look of horror on her face he conceded more gently, "I do not suspect any of your staff of treachery, but surely you understand that I can leave no stone unturned."

Padmé bit her lip and looked down at the datapad that still rested, forgotten, between her hands. "I thought of Tatooine as the furthest place away from the dangers on Coruscant," she murmured. "I thought of it as the perfect place to hide, just like before."

"We must be cautious. The times are different, and we don't know how the populace will respond to our presence here. Someone's curiosity has been aroused already. We are being watched from the southern ridge. At least they don't know who you are, and that is something we can keep from them."

Padmé looked away.

"What is it?" Obi-Wan demanded immediately. He was getting better at reading her expressions.

"It's only that... even if Anakin isn't here, I had hoped to visit his mother. She was very kind to us all those years ago. I wanted to pay my respects." She glanced at Obi-Wan through thick lashes. "She must know who I am... surely Anakin told her..."

This time, Obi-Wan's sigh was audible. "Of course... the mother." He thought for a moment. "I can't make you any promises. We'll have to see what is possible."

Padmé nodded mutely, her disappointment plain to see.

"The holo-recording?" he reminded her gently.

She nodded again, and signaled for the droid.

When the first gift arrived the day after Anakin's departure from Tatooine, no one knew what it was. The bundle had been left out by the vaporators because the perimeter shields had been up all night.

Cliegg poked it suspiciously with his toe. When it didn't move, explode, or bite him, he bent down to get a closer look at the roughly wrapped bundle. The word was badly lettered on top. He stared at the bundle, frowning, until he finally decided to look inside. It was nothing, really... some food packets and a cake of some kind, wrapped in an embroidered cloth. It didn't make any sense, but it seemed harmless enough. He gathered it up and brought it inside.

Shmi was just as mystified. She ran her fingers over the contents again and again, and asked him several times what the packet and the lettering looked like, but didn't have any better idea than Cliegg did who had left it.

Cliegg stowed away the food packets, left the cake on the table, and went about his business. It must have been at the back of his mind, though, because a few hours later in the garage, he suddenly dropped his tools and sprinted back through the tunnel into the main dome. The cake still sat where he had left it. With a violent motion, Cliegg dumped it into the recycler, and as an afterthought, threw in the sealed food packets that had been in the packet with it.

Who would go around giving people food for no reason? It didn't make sense. Better safe than sorry.

Not long after, near midday, Owen arrived with Beru in tow. Cliegg's expression softened when he saw her (the girl was a damn fine cook, and she was very good with Shmi) but hardened just as quickly when he saw the bundles in his son's arms.

"Dad, somebody left these packages outside by the outer perimeter. There weren't any footprints. It must have been a while ago. Did you see anyone?"

Owen dumped his load on the table and they all stared it. There were three more packets, and a hand-carved glowlamp holder. One of the packets had Shmi's name on it.

Cliegg described the first packet he'd found. "It's the damndest thing."

The embroidered cloth from that first packet still lay crumpled on the table where Cligg had pushed it aside. Beru, a quiet girl from a neighboring farm (to the extent that a moisture farm on the wastes could be said to have neighbors) picked it up and studied it.

"Not many people do this kind of handwork any more," she said thoughtfully. "It looks like something I saw old Latia working on a few months back. You know, over on the Toller farm." Beru smoothed the colorful cloth between gentle fingers. "It's an old fashioned dish cover, see? It's very beautiful."

The men stared at the object like schoolchildren looking at an incomprehensible artifact.

"It... it looks like a gift," the girl said. "For Shmi."

"Why?" Owen said stupidly.

Cliegg pawed through the other bundles. Their contents were similar; food, handicrafts like the glowlamp base, and in one bundle, a narrow bracelet fashioned from beaten metal. Cliegg scratched his head. He had never known Shmi to wear jewelry of any kind. "Maybe they heard she's sick?"

"People have known that since the day it happened, "Owen muttered. "They ask me about her all the time."

"Well, I dunno," Cliegg concluded. This time he didn't throw away the contents of the bundles, but piled them into a storage container and put them aside until he had time to think.

If Anakin had felt humbled by his encounter with Count Dooku on the planetoid, the splendors of the _Serena_ made him feel shabby and utterly unworthy of being there. As a child, enveloped in Qui-Gon Jinn's rustic Jedi simplicity, young Anakin had been able to enjoy all the splendors of the Galaxy without feeling intimidated or out of place. At nineteen, Anakin was a grown man who understood a few things about the universe, and one of those things was his lowly place in it. Dooku was no modest Jedi; if Anakin had needed any proof of that, the _Serena_ was enough. Surrounded by the evidence of Dooku's power and wealth, Anakin couldn't stop wondering when the Count of Serenno would wake up to his mistake and send him packing, just as the Jedi had.

_I'm nothing and no one_, he thought over and over again. _Why is he willing to take me on as a student?_

And yet Dooku continued to be a thoughtful, respectful host; personally showing Anakin to a suite of rooms that rivaled anything on Naboo in splendor and proclaiming them to be Anakin's, inviting him to help himself to whatever clothing he might find in his quarters that suited him, and even offering to send poor, dumbstruck Threepio for an oil bath.

Anakin agreed to everything, if only because he didn't want to sully the splendid surroundings with his own worn clothes, and because by comparison with the polished protocol droids that he encountered at every turn on the yacht, Threepio looked pathetic.

"Excellent," Dooku said, as graciously as if he was entertaining royalty. "I have some matters to attend to, but I look forward to further conversation; over a meal, perhaps. The droids will alert you when it is time, and show you the way. In the meantime, feel free to do as you wish.

"I ... I ... yes," Anakin stammered, and quickly added, "Thank you." He had never stammered before. But then, he had never felt as uncomfortable in his own skin as he did at that moment.

Left alone in a suite fit for a prince, Anakin took out his lightsaber and stared at it, wondering what exactly he had done or said to earn Count Dooku's interest ... and what it would take to keep it.

A while later he was leaping about the splendid rooms, testing the limits of the weapon (and the resilience of the fine furnishings). He explored all of the minute details he hadn't had the time or privacy to study on Tatooine – the weapon's balance, speed, and variations in pitch; and above all the connection between himself and the sword in his hand. The only thing he couldn't do was test the blade on objects, although he accidentally came close once or twice. When he was certain that he could activate it easily and at will, when its weight and shape seemed natural in his hand, he looked up from his work. He didn't know how much time had passed. He was still alone, and beginning to feel hungry.

Thinking about the promised meal, Anakin put aside his lightsaber and went into the fresher to clean himself up. Rummaging around, he found cupboards full of fine clothing. He grabbed something, anything, and pulled it over his head. Catching sight of himself in an enormous mirror, he laughed out loud. With his untamed hair curling wildly atop a heavy blue robe lavishly decorated with silver and gold beading, he looked like an overstuffed courtier who had just walked through a power coupling. That would never do. He put aside the alien clothing, slipped back into his own shabby but comfortable clothes, and found a strip of leather to tie back his hair. Having pulled on his not-so-polished best boots, he reached for his lightsaber.

It wasn't there.

He looked around. Remembered having put it down on the bed. Searched under the covers, on the floor, everywhere.

It was gone.

Puzzled, Anakin closed his eyes and recalled every detail of his movements since entering the room. He had without a doubt placed the weapon on the bed a handbreadth from the corner on which he now sat. He got up and searched again, but it had vanished. Strange ... normally he sensed when someone was nearby...

_A droid_, he thought immediately. A droid must have come into the room and removed it while he was in the fresher, perhaps having identified it as refuse. That wasn't a happy thought. The idea that some machine might be disposing of his precious handiwork somewhere on the huge ship made him want to leap up in hot pursuit, but he had no clue where to search.

He whirled around, looking for a comms. console of some kind. If he could somehow broadcast his loss... but no. The idea of creating a furor over something that was his own fault was shameful. He couldn't bear the thought of looking like a helpless idiot in front of Dooku. A scene like that would surely have him back in his ship and on his way home in no time.

Growing more and more desperate, Anakin sank down on the bed again, unwilling to concede the loss of his precious lightsaber, but powerless to get it back. He beat his thighs with his fists, and then, ashamed of his outburst of anger, he closed his eyes and tried to overcome it.

The effort of steadying his breathing and taming his thoughts, as he had been taught so long ago, slowly brought him into a calmer state. Gradually, only the lightsaber remained in his consciousness: a detailed picture of the way he last seen it, a perfect memory of the way it had felt in his hand. His arm tingled the way it did when he activated the blade... his fingers reached for it... and all at once, he felt a kind of inner pull that urged him to run out the door and down the corridor to his right.

He obeyed it.

Without thinking much about it, only responding to the sense that he needed to go this way, and then that, Anakin ran through the echoing corridors of Count Dooku's Yacht as if he knew the ship's layout by heart. The inner urge grew stronger as he ran, his sense of direction, surer. He was somewhere near the ship's engine room – the sound and vibration of her great engines was muted, but seemed to vibrate off every surface in the corridor – when all at once he careened awkwardly to a stop, any grace in his movements undone by the gleaming floor.

At the end of the corridor stood the Count, his feet firmly planted at shoulder width, his arms crossed over his chest... and one hand closed over a dull metal cylinder that Anakin knew was his lightsaber even though he couldn't see it properly.

Anakin felt the blush flare all over his face and neck. He stood mutely, trying hard not to pant, braced for the shaming that was to come.

"Lesson number one." Dooku said calmly. "Mindfulness and focus."

Anakin swallowed.

Dooku held up Anakin's lightsaber. "You left your weapon in a place where anyone could take it. You let go of your connection to it while doing other things. You wasted nearly a quarter of a standard hour in trying to regain the connection."

Anakin nodded, surprised. His connection to the weapon was ongoing? He hadn't known that...

"Who took your lightsaber – a droid or a living being?"

Anakin shook his head.

"It was I. You sensed nothing?"

Again he shook his head.

"How many meters distance lie between your chamber and this part of the ship?"

Another shake.

"How many droids did you pass in the corridors?"

The _Serena_ was full of droids. Anakin had ignored them. Another head shake.

"We have a great deal of work to do, and very little time in which to do it. Pray you learn quickly." Dooku looked down at Anakin's lightsaber, which he firmly grasped in his hand. "Given our time constraints, we will postpone our meal until you have learned enough to retrieve your lightsaber from me. You cannot learn to use it until you possess it."

Anakin's stomach growled at the mention of food, but his blush had subsided. Another chance... he had another chance! Who needed food? Who needed anything but the chance to learn? "I'm ready," he vowed.

"Let us hope so," Dooku said dryly.

Dax's enjoyment of her Corellian Special was marred by the fact that it was her second-to-last one (she had her doubts that she could get a good cigar in this desert outpost), and by the tiny signs of movement on the ridge above the Serena to the east. She had her sidearm with her, of course, but the ridge was at rifle distance, so no matter where she stood outside the starship, she was a perfect target. You couldn't exactly smoke underneath the ship's belly by the fuselage.

Appearing to focus only on her cigar, standing in a relaxed-looking pose partially turned away from the ridge, Dax studied the terrain with well-developed peripheral vision. She counted two – no, three – individuals on the ridge. More might be in hiding.

She didn't like the position of the ship. The Jedi had called it 'defensible,' which it was, if you were in a straight-up fight. Nobody could approach it or get inside. But if you ever wanted to take a stroll outside, there wasn't any protection against snipers. Dax didn't know exactly what danger her patient, the Senator, was trying to avoid, but it stood to reason that at some point, the people on the Serena would need to leave the ship. Dax was of the opinion that Jedi should've sent a scouting party up to that ridge, but he had only seemed interested in making sure the Senator was never unguarded, that comms. were always manned, and in sending scouts to the settlement over in the west. During the strategy meeting, Dax had thought about offering to check out the ridge, but then remembered that she was only the medic.

Damn. That probably meant she'd be confined to the ship indefinitely.

The Jedi moved so quietly that even Dax didn't notice him until he was right behind her in the shadows under the ship's belly. She hadn't heard the main hatch open; he must have slipped out one of the service ports underneath the ship. But why?

"It's not safe to stand out there, Dax," he said quietly.

"Might be. Might not," she countered neutrally. "I count three of 'em that aren't good at hidin', or don't think it's necessary. Either way, doesn't feel like they're about to take potshots."

"But you don't know that for certain."

"I'm just sayin'."

The Jedi crouched silently in the shadows for a while. Careful not to give away his presence or position, Dax took another drag on her Special without looking at him, and then reluctantly put it out, carefully saving the remainder for another time. It was time to be frugal.

"I tend to agree with you," the Jedi said as if he'd been thinking it over. "I sense curiosity, not hostility."

"You want me to go up there an' find out?" she offered semi-hopefully.

"Actually, I had something else in mind, if you're willing. I'm going up to the ridge myself, but I'm going the long way around, starting out in the opposite direction, out of their sightline. If you wouldn't mind staying out here to smoke the rest of that cigar, and taking your time about it, it would keep their eyes on you."

Dax stared up at the sky. "It's my second-to-last one. I'm gonna want some replacements pretty soon."

"Then I'll make sure you get a chance to go into town when we're secure here."

"That's all I need to know." Dax began the enjoyable process of lighting up again. "Good huntin', Jedi."

He didn't answer. Maybe he was already gone. Dax took to pacing slowly up and down in front of the ship, stopping to stretch occasionally, for all the world looking like a crewman on a break. It was just enough movement to keep them focused on her, but not enough that she looked suspiciously busy.

She liked that Jedi. He was a good guy, taking care of things himself. She wondered briefly who would be in command if he got himself killed, but it didn't worry her too much. From what she'd seen, those Jedi could take care of themselves.

When she'd finished the last pleasant puff, she figured she'd given the Jedi enough time to make cover, and made her way leisurely back inside the ship.

If Anakin had been inclined to reflecting on such things, he would have been glad that he was used to hardship, because the next untold hours of his life were brutal. Food wasn't a consideration; nor was sleep. Conversation was limited and specific. All of his being – every thought, every movement, and every mote of energy he possessed – was engaged in trying to do the impossible; to master something he barely could imagine.

The Force.

It was all Dooku talked about, all he wanted Anakin to learn. But he wasn't learning. He was failing.

He tried so hard, but for all of his trying, Anakin never seemed to succeed to Dooku's satisfaction. Dooku wanted him to do things right away that Anakin had only ever seen done by seasoned Jedi Masters – shifting objects from a distance, or making leaps that looked as if they were levitating – but all Anakin achieved during his first lesson was a body full of bruises and growing sense of despair.

Anakin didn't question his new teacher or argue, not once, but the frustration at his own failure became so intense that his performance became worse and worse. Finally, Dooku called a rare break. They were in a training room, and Anakin had just fallen badly when attempting an impossible leap from one rope to the next. Sweating, aching, and miserable, he sat hunched on the floor with his arms wrapped around his knees. His shirt and boots had long since been cast aside. His hands were as raw from the ropes as his heart was from misery.

Nothing he had ever done or achieved in his life counted, or helped, in this place. Nothing. Ever since his rejection by the Jedi, Anakin had hidden his failure from those around him. When they looked up to him and lauded his so-called achievements, he had felt ashamed that they saw him as some kind of a hero. All along he had known that he was worthless, but he had liked the feeling of being admired, and so he had pretended along with them – his family, his friends, and everyone who knew of him on Tatooine. And he had accomplished things – big things. Compared to others, he was a genius.

In this training room, in only a few hours, Dooku had ripped away Anakin's fragile façade of success and exposed him for what he was.

Nothing.

His face was wet, but he was too tired to know whether from tears or sweat. What did it matter? The Jedi had been right about him. All along, they had been right.

Something cold touched his forearm. Anakin looked up to see Dooku offering him a cup of water. For all their exertions (although admittedly, Anakin had done most of the exerting), the Count looked as fresh and calm as always, although he had put aside his cloak and his belt. But even in his loose tunic and leggings he looked as elegantly put together as always.

"Thank you." Anakin reached for the water and drank it down thirstily, grateful for the kindness.

Dooku lowered himself easily to the floor in front of Anakin, flexible and graceful despite his years.

"Anakin, as you probably know, this is not the way Jedi are taught. Traditional training begins with the teaching of skills; simple skills at first, suited to children, and then building in difficulty and complexity as the young person grows and matures. In a Force-sensitive person, the development of these skills gradually brings with it an enhanced understanding of the Force and one's connection with it. It is a sound and proven method for developing the mind, the body, and knowledge of the Force, but it takes a long, long time. We don't have that kind of time. In order to compress the training as much as possible, I have to take a completely different approach."

_Making me fall until I kill myself?_ Anakin wondered bitterly, but he kept his silence.

"For someone of your natural abilities, this lesson can be learned in a single moment, once you have faith in yourself. It is purely a matter of awareness of the Force, and your connection with it. Or rather, its connection to you. Grasp that connection – truly grasp it – and in that instant, the Force is yours to use as you will, and all of this can stop."

That hurt. Anakin shot a hard glare at his teacher under damp lashes, but quickly looked away and kept his mouth shut.

"The Force is as tangible as anything you have ever beheld with your eyes, Anakin. It can be grasped. Shaped. Manipulated. Properly channeled, it is more powerful than anything you have ever imagined. But to channel it, to be able to use it at your will and discretion, you must accept it fully."

"I do," Anakin protested. "I do accept the idea of the Force. I know it exists, I've felt it running through me..."

"Yes," Dooku said. "Of course you have. That is why you are here."

"... but I can't do the things you are asking of me!"

"That is because you are trying to do them unaided. The things I ask of you can only be done with the aid of the Force."

"I can't make it help me!" There, he'd said it. He had admitted his failure.

"The Force surrounds you and penetrates you, Anakin, just as it surrounds and penetrates everything you see around you – the rope, the floor, the bench ...

Anakin glared at the bench bitterly. He hadn't been able to budge it, not even a tiny bit, while under Dooku's will it had floated gently to the ceiling.

"The Force waits to do your bidding," Dooku went on relentlessly. "The Force knows you, Anakin. It waits with infinite patience for you to know it."

"I can't do it," Anakin said hoarsely.

"Then the problem lies within you."

"I know!" Anakin shouted. "I know that I'm the problem! I'm not good enough! I never was!" Rage and despair drove him to his feet. He couldn't stop yelling. "The Jedi knew it! They knew I was hopeless! I was crazy to think that maybe they were wrong..."

Dooku rose gracefully from the floor to face Anakin eye to eye. "Perhaps that is so," he said somberly. "Perhaps I was wrong about you, and Qui-Gon was wrong about you. Perhaps the Jedi Council was right after all." He sighed. "I'm sorry, Anakin. I had so looked forward to teaching you, but if we cannot get past this first, most important lesson, there isn't much else we can accomplish together."

Anakin's hot fury turned into shock. Even though he believed every word he had shouted – even though he was certain that he was destined to fail – something inside of him protested wildly. Somewhere, at the center of his being, he had hoped that Dooku would contradict him, would argue the contrary, would persuade him otherwise. Secretly, in his deepest heart, he had wanted to have his beliefs about himself ripped away by another's faith in him – faith as strong as Qui-Gon Jinn's.

That was what he had come here looking for. He understood it now. He had come looking for Qui-Gon's certainty, because his own was not strong enough. In the face of all the opposition from the Jedi, and the silent doubt from Obi-Wan, Anakin's belief in himself had not long survived Qui-Gon's death. And now, Qui-Gon's Master, too, agreed that he was a lost cause.

Count Dooku turned to look across the training room at the bench that Anakin had not been able to shift. Anakin's homemade lightsaber, into which he had put all of his hopes and dreams, lay on it, looking small and dull. With one graceful gesture, Dooku brought it flying across the room into his hand.

Smack. Anakin shuddered at the tiny, satisfying sound the cylinder made when it struck Dooku's palm.

It had flown to Dooku's hand. Not his. Anakin's fingers ached.

"Under the circumstances, Anakin, you won't be needing this. It isn't a toy. In untrained hands it can be quite dangerous. I will dispose of it for you."

"No!"

Dooku turned away. "Good luck in your life, Anakin, wherever it takes you. The droids will see you out."

Anakin felt himself trembling all over. That's my lightsaber, he thought wildly. I built it! It's MINE... The trembling in his arm turned to fire. His fingers burned.

MINE!

Hardly knowing what he did, wanting only to right the wrong that had been done him, Anakin reached out with his burning hand, and before he knew it...

Smack.

... his fingers closed around the warm, familiar cylinder that fit into his hand as if it had grown there.

He stared at it. The trembling stopped.

Without looking, he sensed Dooku moving toward him. Instantly, the blade flashed blue.

"It's MINE!"

Dooku began to laugh heartily. Anakin glowered at him, full of suspicion, the blade humming between them.

Dooku spread his arms wide. "That won't be necessary, Anakin. After all, I am unarmed."

As if that meant anything. Anakin had seen what Dooku could do in a split second.

"I think, " Dooku said cheerfully, "it is time we had that meal at last. I don't know about you, but I'm starving."

The promise of food finally penetrated Anakin's warlike fog. After a moment, the blue blade disappeared.

"I thought... it was over..."

"Not in the least." Dooku put a friendly arm around Anakin's sweaty shoulders and began to draw him toward the door. "You have mastered the most fundamental lesson: you have established a conscious connection with the Force. Now we can proceed with teaching you the minor details, like swordsmanship. Strategy. Observation. Thinking. And of course – meditation."

"I'm not sure how conscious that was, "Anakin admitted. "I was just..."

"I know. I know. But I can assure you that from now on; you will find that it only gets easier. And when the connection turns to trust, there is no limit to what you can learn."

Anakin wiped the sweat out of his eyes with the back of one hand. The other still gripped his lightsaber. It would never again leave his consciousness. Never.

"Go and wash up," Dooku said kindly, releasing Anakin. "I will send a droid to bring you to my quarters. While we dine, I would like to learn all about you, and about what you have been doing all these years. I'm certain that it is an interesting story."

Anakin nodded, and stumbled in the direction of his quarters. Hopefully, he still remembered where they were.

"Oh, Anakin," Dooku called out behind him. "There is just one more thing."

Anakin tensed. Clutching his lightsaber tightly, he turned to face his devious new teacher.

"You were right about that blue robe, Anakin. It wasn't right for you at all. I'm sure you will be able to find something more suitable."

With another peal of laughter, Dooku turned the corner and was gone.


	11. Chapter 10 Openings

**Chapter 10. Openings**

"I'm hungry," Kit complained. "Did you bring anything to eat?" He'd grown tired of spying on the blue and white spaceship. Nothing was happening – only one person had come out, paced around for a while, and gone back inside. Even the utter novelty of seeing a ship of her size and elegant lines parked out in the wastes had worn off.

"I thought _you_ did." Lupie was still staring through the field glasses, which hed been hogging practically the whole time. Not that there was anything to see.

Kit rolled over onto his back and stared at the unbroken blue of the sky, shielding his eyes with his hand against the glare. "I'm bored, anyway. Nothing's happening. Lets go back into town."

"Why? What're you gonna do in town?"

"I dunno. Eat. Besides, it's hot out here."

"It's hot everywhere." Lupie kept staring through the glasses.

"I'm BORED," Kit grumbled again.

_"Veritas,"_ Lupie said. "What d'ya think that means?"

"It means BORING," Kit said. A split second later he'd leaped to his feet and jumped on Lupie, trying to snatch the field glasses away from him. Lupie hung on to them, beating off his attacker with one arm and both legs.

"Knock it off, you two bantha calves," old Popper grumbled from his shady spot underneath a low cliff of rock. He'd extended the shade by fashioning a lean-to out of a poncho and some string, and was stretched out comfortably with his hands on his stomach, his ever-present blaster rifle tucked securely against his side. "You're going to attract attention."

The young men, fully engaged in their tussle, ignored him. All that pent-up energy had to go somewhere. So it was Popper who first noticed that something was amiss; a faint scent carried on the wind, perhaps, or a nameless warning prickling just under his skin. He had a grip on his blaster rifle even before he realized that he was bothered about something. Even in the hot, clear daytime there were enough dangers lurking in the wastes that he'd opted to accompany the two lugheads on their spying adventure, since they wouldn't be dissuaded.

"I said, _stop it,"_ Popper hissed, rising to his feet to get a better look around, but the two warriors were too engrossed on battle to hear the note of genuine warning in his voice.

About the same time that the sand under his feet began to shiver, animal sounds chilled his blood.

"RAIDERS!" he yelled, running toward the young ones, intending to drag them to the tiny shelter offered by the rock ledge if necessary... at least they'd have something solid at their backs... but Kit was already crouched in the sand, his sidearm clutched in both hands, firing at something behind Popper.

The rocks above seemed to explode, raining loose stones down on Popper's head. He twisted around, bringing his rifle to his shoulder, squinting up at the two dangerous bundles of sand-colored rags that were waving their gaffa sticks around and making that godawful sound. By the time he'd shot one, the other was in midair, nearly on top of him. He stumbled back frantically, but the creatures stick came down on his rifle arm with a sickening crack.

"Popper, duck!" someone yelled behind him, but it was too late, he was on his way down anyway, and not by choice. Shots were fired and someone else screamed, and then there was an unfamiliar sound, a kind of strange _hummmmm_ that rose and fell in pitch. Popper saw a bright green light against the sky, and then everything went kind of gray... but not gray enough. Popper wished fervently that he would black out, the pain was unbearable; but even half blind with it, he was still awake, trying to endure the agony.

A hand came to rest lightly on his flaming shoulder. He jerked away from it into white-hot pain.

"You are safe," a strange voice said in Basic. "But your arm is badly injured. Try to keep very still."

Shivering with shock and pain, Popper struggled through the fog to make out the face that hovered above him. A pale man with sand-colored hair and a neatly trimmed beard sat very still above him with his eyes closed and his hand resting ever so lightly on the agonizing shoulder. Popper didn't know how long the man sat that way, but by the time the stranger opened his eyes (they were gray) the trembling had subsided, and the pain seemed to have ratcheted down a few notches as well. Enough so that Popper stopped wishing for unconsciousness or death, anyway.

Behind him, Kit called out, "Lupie's hurt! He's badly hurt!"

"Don't move. I will look after him," the stranger said to Popper, rising lightly to his feet and disappearing from view. Popper stayed where he was, looking at the rock ledge where he had been lying moments before, and at the two utterly still ragtag bodies that lay there now. They stank. Raiders always stank. If the wind was right, you could smell them coming. But they knew about wind, and about stalking, and about sneak attacks, because they were murderous cowards that hid and ambushed and only came out at night.

Only it was broad daylight.

_Why?_

"It looks bad," Kit wailed.

"He has lost a great deal of blood," the stranger said. There was a ripping sound, and then, "Hold this against the wound."

"Is he going to die?" Kit was losing it for sure, he sounded near hysterical. Popper wanted to tell him to calm down, but couldn't muster the strength.

"It depends how quickly we can get help," the stranger said. "How far away is the town?"

"Took us an hour on the speeder bikes..."

"Are they the only transport you have available?"

"Yeah... he's really bleeding!"

"Keep pressure on it."

The stranger walked back into Popper's view. For a long moment he stood just where the boys had lain spying on the ship below, staring into the distance. In the background, Kit was half-crying, half-talking to Lupie. Popper had no idea whether Lupie was conscious.

The stranger seemed to come to a decision, because he straightened his shoulders, touched his ear, and murmured, "Captain, I need the large speeder at this mark. Yes, right away. Send Panaka with a field-ready medkit and two of your men. No, not Dax. I need her to clear the sick bay, do you understand? She is to clear it completely, and make ready for two injured. Yes, two. And Captain, make sure the men are armed."

"What is it, Anakin?"

Anakin looked across the glittering table at his host, but hardly saw him. "I'm sorry? What?"

"Is something wrong?"

Something felt wrong. He just wasn't sure what. It was the strangest feeling...

"Nothing, no. I was just thinking of home." Anakin looked at the spoon that still hung in his hand, and put it back down on his plate. The food was delicate and rich and he'd had enough.

_More than enough._

"You were telling me about your mother's injury."

"Yes." Anakin cleared his throat. "One of my purposes on this trip is to find better medical care for her." He finished his tale, but part of him was back on Tatooine with Shmi, with the guys, with everyone, wondering if everything was all right.

What was he doing here, dressed in fine clothes and eating food fit for a palace banquet?

When was he going to return with help for his mother, as he had promised?

"Well," Dooku said, placing his spoon down as well. "Perhaps I can help."

Lupie was in bad shape (a shot to the chest, the stranger said) but Popper was holding his own for the moment... as long as he stayed still, anyway. The slightest movement was agony. The shock seemed to have receded, so he could think. But all he had to think about were unanswered questions: the strange daylight attack, how Lupie was (he wished he could turn around and see him), and about the man who had appeared out of nowhere and had sent for help.

When he couldn't stand it any longer, he croaked out, "Hey!"

The stranger moved into his view. "Do you need something?"

Popper strained his eyeballs to look up as far as he could without actually raising his head. "Who are you?"

The stranger crouched down beside him. Once Popper could see him better, he decided that the guy looked like someone you didn't mess with. Polite, but kind of ... steely.

"My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi. I happened by because I wanted to find out why you were spying on my ship."

Popper blinked. He didn't have an immediate answer for that one.

"Lupie just wanted to see that girl," Kit snuffled behind him. "That girl that got on your ship at the spaceport. Hes been crazy about her ever since he first saw her."

_Oh, shut up!_ Popper thought, but it was too late to say anything.

"I see." Kenobi looked down at Popper. "It was a dangerous game, don't you think?"

"They don't usually attack like this," Popper muttered.

"The Tuskens?"

"Yeah. They never come out in the daytime. Everyone knows that."

An engine whined nearby, and cloud of sand billowed over the ridge above the dead Raiders.

"Our transport is here." The man called Kenobi rose to his feet. The next instant, he was already on top of the ridge.

_How'd he do that?_

He heard the murmur of voices. Three men clambered over the rock ridge, one carrying a medkit. Popper felt himself beginning to shake again, maybe from relief. Whoever the stranger was, he'd kept his promise to bring help.

A young, dark-skinned man with tattoos all down his arms knelt down by Popper with a transderm patch in his hand.

"I'm going to give you something for the pain," he said, pushing up the sleeve of Popper's good arm and pressing the patch to his shoulder. Then he sat back on his heels and grinned. "Night-night."

That was the absolutely last thing Popper remembered.

"He's doing what?" Padmé had heard it well enough. Dax had spoken clearly. She just couldn't believe it.

"Two of 'em, apparently. Badly injured. Orders are to move you to your own cabin. You're to stay inside and not come out for anything while they're on board. Your Ladies, too."

"What is he _thinking?"_

"Beats me, but I'm followin' orders. C'mon, My Lady. Weve gotta go. I've gotta set up another cot in here."

Leaning heavily on Dax, Padmé made her way out of the sick bay and into the corridor beyond. It was the first time she had been on her feet in days, and she didn't like how weak she felt. It made her feel more vulnerable than ever.

"This is harder than I thought it would be," Padmé admitted. "I was feeling fine in bed..."

"You'll be all right," Dax assured her. "You just need a little practice."

It was also the first time Padmé had glimpsed the rest of the ship, which was quite a bit larger and more luxurious than she had imagined a ship supplied by the Jedi would be. "Even if I'm hiding, they are going to see all of this. Its a security breach of the worst kind. I can't believe that Captain Typho is going along with it."

"Well..." Dax's eyes crinkled up in amusement, "... what makes you think they're gonna be awake to see anything the whole time they're here?"

Padmé stared at her, and then shook her head. "Madness."

Eirtaé emerged from a cabin and hurried toward them, supporting Padmé from the other side.

"Your Jedi is out of his mind," Padmé muttered. "Maybe you can talk some sense into him."

Dax raised an eyebrow at the Handmaiden. Eirtaé stared straight ahead. Together they got Padmé to her cabin and eased her into bed.

The minute Dax left, Padmé demanded, "Get me Captain Typho!"

"I'm sorry, that is impossible," Eirtaé murmured. "He is organizing the rescue mission."

Padmé opened her mouth to protest, and then closed it again. "So that is how it is."

Eirtaé shrugged; a small movement, a precise lift of one shoulder, but it was enough.

Padmé closed her eyes. "Leave me."

"If there is anything I can get for you..."

"Just go."

"As you wish."

For a long moment, Eirtaé stood looking at her. At last the cabin door swished open and then closed again.

When Padmé opened her eyes again she found herself staring into a very different reality than the one she had known all her life. The attacks on her had been terrifying and had made her vulnerable, politically and physically. But the remedy – the desperate and ever more drastic effort to keep her safe – was far worse. It had made her irrelevant.

For the first time in her life, the only thing being asked of Padmé Amidala of Naboo was that she stay out of the way.

Anakin was still brooding when he returned to his cabin after a sumptuous meal with his host and teacher. Dooku's promise to send a MedDroid to Tatooine immediately had eased his mind a little, but he still felt that he ought to return home with it. Surely his mother would be a bit uncertain of a strange MedDroid, even if had been sent in Anakins name. But he hadn't had the heart to bring it up to Dooku – not after all the efforts the Count was making on his behalf. Outside of their training sessions, it was as if nothing was too much trouble. Any concern that Anakin mentioned almost immediately became a problem solved...

He hadn't mentioned the water technology, though. He wasn't sure why. He just hadn't.

Anakin stepped into his suite to see a strange protocol droid staring at him. He had to admit that he found the number of droids on the _Serena_ a bit creepy. There was no human life at all except for his host and now himself, so why were there droids everywhere? What could they possibly be needed for?

"You can go," Anakin said to the droid, wondering where Threepio was.

"Oh, Master Ani," the droid wailed. "Have I displeased you?"

Anakin stared at the golden vision. "Threepio?"

"Yes, Master Ani!" Threepio raised his arms to the side as much as he was able. "Do you like it?" From head to toe, he gleamed with the perfection of a brand new droid.

Anakin stared. "What happened to you? Is that a polish or did they replate you?"

"A little of both, I think. I'm not sure. I wasn't awake the entire time. But I was told that my original coverings were removed, polished, and replaced." He stuck out the leg that had one silver shin guard where Anakin originally hadn't been able to salvage a matching gold one. "It does seem to be true." Since he'd never had a real shine, no one had ever noticed the difference enough to be bothered by it.

"You look good." Anakin looked a bit ruefully down at his own fine clothing. So did he, actually, in a dark, close-fitting tunic of a fabric so soft that it reminded him of the time he had brushed against the Queen of Naboos sleeve. Deftly, without making a big fuss about it, the Count of Serenno had turned Anakin and his droid into something more presentable.

He sighed. Polished or not, Threepio was a comforting link to home. "I'm really glad to see you."

"And I you, Master Ani. This is very strange place. I've never seen so many different kinds of droids. Why, they have vast decks full of battle droids, and some very dangerous ones they call droidekas. None of them are very friendly. The only one who would talk to me was a protocol droid that was being programmed for espionage, I think."

_Battle droids? Espionage?_ Anakin stared thoughtfully at his newly golden protocol droid.

"You're right, Threepio. That does sound strange. I guess you'd better stay here in this suite for the rest of the time were on this ship."

"If you don't mind my asking, Master Ani, how long are we going to remain here? I'm not sure I like this place."

"I don't know yet, Threepio." Anakin yawned mightily, suddenly aware that he was beyond tired. He couldn't remember the last time hed slept. In fact, if he didn't get to bed right that minute, he would likely crash on the floor. "I'm turning in. Wake me at 0500, will you?"

"Of course, Master Ani."

"And Threepio... no switching off. I want you on watch all night, OK?"

On watch... certainly, Master Ani, but ...

By the time the droid turned his round eyes on his master, Anakin was spread-eagled on the bed in all of his clothes, sleeping like the dead.

"On watch," Threepio murmured. "I don't like the sound of that at all."

Anakin never made it to 0500. He startled out of a comatose sleep to see Dooku standing over him.

"Connection with the Force, Part Three," Dooku announced, eschewing the usual pleasantries.

Anakin already knew that when Dooku was in training mode, no argument or discussion was tolerated. Dooku the Genial Host only made his appearance after Dooku the Teacher was satisfied.

Anakin sat up immediately, but he couldn't help yawning and rubbing his eyes.

"Wake up!" Dooku snapped.

Anakin stifled another yawn.

Dooku pursed his lips. "Sit there." He indicated a spot on the floor near the center of the room, far away from the soft bed or any other furniture.

Anakin did as he was told. On the way he noticed Threepio standing in the shadows of the room, switched off.

Dooku sank down onto the floor in front of him. "What have you learned of meditation?"

Anakin began to describe his early lessons with Obi-Wan.

"Enough," Dooku cut him off. "What have you practiced since then?"

Anakin described his periods of silent contemplation when time seemed to vanish into a moment, and his success in learning to sense and experience things at a distance.

Dooku's verdict was cutting. "Wasted years. The purpose of meditation is to connect consciously with the Force at a level beyond the physical. As you have not yet arrived at the deepest point of connection, I will have to take you there myself. It wont be easy, but it should be effective." Dooku contemplated him for a moment. "I hope you have a strong will."

Anakin felt his body tense. _What now?_

"Close your eyes."

Dooku didn't ask him to relax his body or to do any of the preparation exercises that Obi-Wan had taught. Anakin closed his eyes obediently, but his mind remained active with random thoughts, wondering what Dooku was talking about, wondering whether he would be able to stay awake for one of those boring sessions...

None of it mattered. Almost immediately, Anakin's mind snapped into alertness with the sensation that it was being dragged away from his body. In fact, he quickly lost all sensation in his limbs, and then, even more alarmingly, in his torso. His body became heavy, corpse-like. He wondered wildly whether his heart was still beating. It felt as if his whole being was concentrated in his mind, while everything else had fallen away.

Anakin wasn't at all sure he was ready to leave his body behind, but the choice wasn't his. Right next to him in his consciousness, right inside of his head with him, was Dooku.

_Open your eyes._

Anakin couldn't open his actual eyes; he didn't have any. His body was gone. But the inner gesture of opening his eyes had the same kind of effect. He opened his eyes, and it was as if the universe had turned inside out, revealing all of its inner workings to his sight.

It was a good thing he didn't have any lungs. He would have stopped breathing. Or maybe he had stopped breathing? Maybe he was dead? If he was, it didn't matter; his mind just kept going, pulled along by Dooku like a prisoner in chains. He couldnt escape if he tried. Together, they plunged into the infinite, unfathomable space. If hed had a mouth, Anakin would have screamed. It was like jumping off one of those soaring buildings on Coruscant, with nothing to save you.

_Falling. Twisting. Turning._

Images burned into his mind; frightening, impossible, monstrous forms that radiated fear and menace.

_Those images are your own thoughts and fears. Stop them, Anakin. We dont have time for this._

It couldnt be. They were real. They were REAL, and they were coming for him... Anakin tried to pull back, but the awareness that was Dooku kept dragging him onward, straight into...

_Stop them! _

It took Anakin an unending interval of paralyzing fear to trust Dooku's words over his own perceptions. When he finally got his thoughts and feelings under some kind of control, the images receded, and eternity opened up to his perception.

_At last! Now, observe. Observe the nature of movement._

Movement? Movement? At first Anakin was too dumbfounded to understand. Everything he saw was connected to everything else. He was inside the very heart of the universe, where everything made sense and the senses were irrelevant. The moment he had a thought, it appeared to his sight in all its full dimensional glory. The moment he saw an image, he perceived it in dimensions he had never known existed. He saw _everything, _and for a blinding moment, understood it all...

_Movement, Anakin!_

Oh, right... movement. Anakin tore himself away from the wonders of eternity and tried to think about movement. He moved his imaginary hand, and the entire universe moved, from the smallest atom to the orbits of the planets to the stars themselves. Everything was linked. Everything was connected. Movement wasn't an independent activity, it was part of everything, it _was_ everything... movement was form, and form was movement...

Again and again he tested his new perceptions, creating worlds, moving the stars around, linked to the All as everything was linked to him...

And then the limitless experience of movement turned into something else, something quite unpleasant, a sense of rushing, of heaviness. Anakin fought against it, but the feeling dragged him inexorably down, down, down...

Oh – he had arms and legs, Anakin suddenly realized. They were stinging with pins and needles. How could that be? He had only been away for a moment... He had a whole body, thick and dense, numb and heavy. He wasn't so sure he wanted to have a body. He wanted to keep flying free among the stars...

"Breathe in the Force," Dookus voice ordered. "Draw it into your extremities."

Anakin did, observing with wonder as the sparkling energy filled him to overflowing. The sense of heaviness went away, and very soon he was once again comfortable in his flesh.

"Open your eyes."

Anakin did. His gaze met his teacher's. He realized that he was grinning.

_"That _is your place, Anakin. That is o_ur_ place, to which we return again and again for strength and for knowledge. The Force dwells equally out among the stars, inside the tiniest motes of matter, and inside of us. Those of us who are fortunate enough to experience it in this way know that the Force is not a separate entity that we beseech for aid. The Force is not a sea on which we sail, hoping to find the shore. The Force is the matrix of all life, infinitely variable, and infinitely responsive. We reshape the matrix with every movement we make, with every thought we have. Why not, then, shape it consciously by controlling our movements, by commanding our thoughts?"

Anakin sat thunderstruck, astounded, frozen under the immensity of his new knowledge.

"Some breakfast is in order, I think," Dooku said, bringing him abruptly back down to the crushing triviality of the mundane. "After that, the ropes await your attention."

By the end of that very long day, Anakin could circumnavigate the entire training room without ever touching the floor, making leaps that no human could achieve unaided, crossing the distance between ropes by calling them into his hands. When, satisfied, Dooku called an end to practice, Anakin hardly felt tired. The Force had done most of the work.

On his way out of the training room, Anakin gave the heavy bench that had defeated him the day before a good Force-induced rattle. Just because he could.

The two men from the ridge arrived on the _Veritas _deeply unconsciousness, and were carefully transferred to the small sick bay surrounded by guards so heavily armed that the Tatooine men would have been terrified had they been aware of them. They remained unconscious while their wounds were treated with the aid of one of the finest field model MedDroids available. The _Veritas _didn't have a bacta tank, but the portable micro-layer technology was nearly as effective. Popper's arm, which had suffered several complex fractures, was set and rebuilt with cutting-edge precision. He didn't feel a thing, because he was out cold the whole time. Lupie's injury, a blast wound to the chest, had nearly cost him his life, but Dax had managed to stabilize him. He too would never remember being treated on the mysterious ship.

The only unhurt member of their party, Kit, hadn't been allowed to go with them, although he fought and screamed and kicked to stay with Lupie. In the end, he had been sent back into town on his speeder bike. Danil had gone with him on the second bike to prevent him doubling back, and got him good and drunk that night to make sure he stayed in town.

In the evening of that strenuous day, the Jedi visited the sick bay.

"How long before we can get them out of here, Dax?"

"Another full day at least, and thats pushin' it. The bacta works a treat, but the human body can only take on so much shock."

"I want them kept under."

"That's not gonna help 'em recover."

"It has to be that way."

"Then give 'em another day of recovery time to compensate."

"No."

"All right, Jedi. Have it your way. But they're gonna be sore puppies, especially the kid. He's in no shape to be moved. He needs more surgery."

Obi-Wan studied Dax's face while he thought. "I'll check in with you in the morning for an update. I will make the final decision then."

She shrugged. "Whatever you say."

"How is Senator Amidala?"

"Not as strong as she'd like, and mad as a gundark about it. But she won't relapse. Not now. Just needs to regain her strength, is all."

Obi-Wan nodded. "Good. In that case, I think you should accompany your new patients into town when the time comes, to keep an eye on them." He smiled. "The sooner they go, the sooner you get some R and R."

Dax snorted with laughter. "You're a sly one, Jedi. All right. Tomorrow it is, unless theres a setback in the night. Where do ya want me to take em?"

"There is a medicenter in Mos Eisley. We'll bring them there."

Dax cocked her head to the side. "We?"

"I'm going with you. After all, I want everyone to know who saved them."

"Say ... _what?"_

"I'll speak with you tomorrow, Dax." The Jedi touched her shoulder briefly, comrade to comrade, nodded to Typho's ever-present guards, and was gone.

After considerable searching, Eirtaé finally found Obi-Wan alone on the _Veritas'_ otherwise deserted bridge, staring out the viewscreen at the night sky.

Hesitating to disturb him, she lingered uncertainly at the entrance. He had dimmed the cabin lights, and sat in the pilot's seat with his feet propped on the console. One hand supported his cheek. The other lay relaxed and half-open on his thigh. It was the first time she had seen him in repose.

She turned to go.

"Handmaiden? You wanted to speak to me?"

Eirtaé peeked back inside. "I'm sorry to bother you. It can wait."

"It's all right. Come in." Obi-Wan gestured toward the co-pilots seat, where Eirtaé gingerly seated herself, feeling guilty about having interrupted his time alone.

Their eyes met. For a moment, Eirtaé forgot to speak. Obi-Wan waited patiently until she collected herself.

"I have a question for you, Master Jedi."

"Go on."

"Suppose," Eirtaé began, "suppose that a Jedi on a strange planet comes upon two groups of locals fighting. He does not know them, or their history, or the reason for the dispute. As an outsider, he has no information with which to label either group as good or bad. How does he decide whether to intervene?"

Obi-Wan held her gaze for a long time before looking away, out the viewscreen. Illuminated by a very bright moon, the dunes beyond the ship undulated like waves on a rolling sea. Eirtaé found her eyes drawn to them also, while she waited for the Jedi's answer.

"It is a very good question," he said at last. "The truth is that people – beings of all kinds – tend to label themselves fairly accurately by their intentions. A Jedi who encounters an attack on one group by another will know a good deal about the motivations on both sides. Pure murderous instinct shows up quite clearly."

"And so the Jedi decides to destroy the ones with the murderous intentions?"

Obi-Wan reached up to stroke his beard. "His actions would depend in the first instance on his mission. Beyond that, it is not unknown for Jedi to behave as other beings do: to make their own judgments about what they see, and to make personal choices about how and whether to respond."

Eirtaé looked down at her hands, which were tightly clasped in her lap.

"Is it a personal or a professional choice when the Jedi responds by destroying the ones he judges to be the murderous attackers, and rescuing the others?"

"Eirtaé."

She looked up.

"Would you rather I had left the men to die? Having the means to prevent it? They meant us no harm."

"But did you know that? At the time, I mean?"

"Not entirely," he admitted.

"Please understand. I am not questioning your choice to show compassion. What I am struggling to understand is how you make choices. How, for example, did you decide to bring the wounded strangers onto Padmés ship, leaving her... leaving all of us ... terribly exposed?"

"Precautions have been taken, Eirtaé You know that. And the young one would have died without immediate help."

"But it is such a risk! I know that you don't do anything without a purpose. I have been wondering all day about your possible reasons for doing this. What troubles me is that I have only been able to come up with one conclusion."

"What is that?"

"That Padmé's safety is not your only goal, and perhaps not your greatest priority. That there is something else going on... something else that you are trying to accomplish."

For the first time since she had known him, Eirtaé heard Obi-Wan sigh like an ordinary man whose burden has suddenly grown heavier.

"I assure you that Padme Amidala's safety is my primary goal. I will not let any harm come to her." When Eirtaé didn't reply, when she just kept looking into his eyes, silently demanding the truth, Obi-Wan added, "I can see that there is no hiding from you."

Following his own example, Eirtaé waited patiently for him to explain.

Obi-Wan looked back out at the silvery dunes. "All right. I do have another mission here. The Jedi Council is very interested in the whereabouts and activities of my former pupil, Anakin Skywalker."

"Ah... no wonder! No wonder Master Windu placed a ship at Padme's disposal within hours of her request!"

"Yes. But the fact that the two missions fit together does not in any way change my obligations to Senator Amidala."

"It just adds considerably to your burden," Eirtaé murmured.

Obi-Wan glanced at her, but just as quickly looked away again. "I arrived here without having any idea how the two tasks might mesh. Then I learned of, and watched, the holo-recording that the Senator secretly commissioned."

"Ah," Eirta said again, this time, with a faint blush.

"It is a remarkable report – detailed, insightful, and finely observed – and far more useful to me than any briefing materials I would normally receive. As well as giving shape to my broader mission, it revealed to me the best way to ensure the Senator's safety while we are here."

"Now I _am _curious."

"Anakin Skywalker enjoys an extraordinary position on this planet. Without having any sort of official status, because of his deeds alone, he exerts quite astonishing influence over everything that happens. He has captured the hearts and minds, and therefore, the loyalty, of the populace. His very presence here is so powerful, so pervasive, that his absence from Tatooine is detectable in the Force itself."

Again he glanced at Eirtaé, as if to assure himself that she was following. She nodded, nearly breathless to know where this was going.

"The people around him strike me as clannish. They are fiercely protective of Anakin, and of one another. All, without question, will protect anyone close to Anakin, anyone who is important to him. When he was my pupil, he revered Padmé. He talked about her all the time. It is likely that she remains important to him."

Eirtaé nodded again. "I see. If Anakin agrees to help protect Padme, anyone who wishes to harm her will have to get through the entire population first. But you say that Anakin isnt here. He doesn't know that Padmé is here looking for him."

"No. But his people are here – and I use the phrase 'his people' quite deliberately. I don't know how close those men on the ridge are to Anakin, but to the clan, that won't matter. The savior of one will begin to earn the trust – however grudging at first – of the rest."

Eirtaé's hands no longer were clenched in her lap. Unconsciously, they smoothed the folds of her robe while she thought.

"What happens next?" she asked at last.

"Thank you." Obi-Wan rewarded her with a rare, heartfelt smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.

Her hands fluttered in its warmth, as if they wanted to cover her heart. "For what?"

"For your trust."

"Oh..." Eirtaé clasped her errant hands together tightly to keep them under control. "I do need to know what comes next. Padmé is not content with hiding in her stateroom."

"Nor should she be. I am sorry for that, and will try to minimize her confinement. Senator Amidala has told me that she wants to visit Anakin's mother. Under the circumstances, I think that is an ideal next step. If you can ask her to be patient for another day, two at most, until I have returned our unconscious visitors to their homes and made myself known, I will find a way to arrange that visit."

Eirta grinned. "So, the Jedi is planning to position himself as the friend of the people? May I ask if he plans to do that in his own name, or in disguise?"

"Oh, the Jedi needs to use his own name. He was, after all, Anakin's Jedi Master. That should buy him some respect, at least until Anakin returns."

"But you threw him out. Won't they hold that against you?"

Obi-Wan stood up and held his hand out for Eirtaé to rise also. "I suspect that Anakin did not tell them what happened. They all speak of him as a former Jedi, as if it was his choice to leave the Order."

"And when he returns ... won't that be awkward for you?"

"Awkward? You have a gift for understatement. I think it likely that I am Anakin Skywalker's least favorite person in the universe. There is no predicting how he will react when he finds me here on his return."

Eirtaé frowned. "Perhaps he won't return."

Obi-Wan stood very still. In the shadows of the dimly lit bridge, his eyes looked as dark as jet. "For any of this to work, I need him to return, and soon. If he does not, the risk to the Senator will become too great, and we will have to leave this planet."

"Oh," Eirtaé said, in a small voice.

"Can you do something for me, Handmaiden?"

"Anything," she blurted out, before she could temper her speech, and then berated herself silently for sounding like an eager girl.

"Tomorrow, could you go into town and learn the whereabouts of Anakin's mother? I would send Vespé, but I need her for something else. Take two of Captain Typho's guards with you for safety."

"Of course."

Obi-Wan bowed, and left her in the shadows.

That night Anakin dreamed of home. He was walking on the hot streets of Mos Eisley on market day. Up ahead, in a crowd, he saw a woman who looked like...

"Mom!" he called out. The woman didn't hear him. She kept walking, and was soon gone from his sight.

_"Mom!" _he called again, beginning to run. "It's me! Wait!"

He ran and ran, as one does in dreams, until finally she was in front of him. He grabbed her shoulder. She turned. She looked just has she had before the accident; even better, because she was a little younger, and her hair was darker.

"Mom! You're all right! You look great!"

In the dream, Shmi looked through him, as if she couldn't see him.

"Mom? Its me..."

Dream-Shmi shook her head and turned away, leaving Anakin bereft. Up ahead, she stopped to speak to a figure in a hooded brown cloak. Even in the dream, Anakin felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. He couldn't see who it was, but the cloak looked a lot like something a Jedi would wear. When he looked again, Shmi and the hooded figure were gone.

_"Mom!"_ Anakin called out again ... into a darkened room on a ship somewhere in space, where he sat up in a luxurious bed with a sick feeling in his stomach.

"Are you all right," Master Ani? Threepio asked worriedly.

"I don't know," Anakin admitted. "I don't know."

That morning, when Dooku the Teacher let himself into Anakin's suite again at an obnoxiously early hour, he found his pupil already awake, dressed, and trying to teach the protocol droid to play cards.

Upon seeing him, Anakin stood up respectfully.

"Weapons training today," Dooku announced succinctly. "Follow me."

Anakin's face lit up. Evidently, this was something he had been waiting for.

_I wonder, _Dooku thought. _I wonder whether he is ready..._

_We shall see._


	12. Chapter 11 Intersections

**Chapter 11. Intersections**

Weapons training wasn't at all what Anakin expected. Clutching his precious lightsaber, Anakin followed Dooku eagerly to the training room, only to be abandoned there.

"This," Dooku said, holding out his hand to show Anakin a small, knobby metal sphere, "is your teacher for today."

Anakin stared at the thing. "What is it?"

"Your enemy." Dooku adjusted something on the sphere and released it from his hand. Humming, it floated to Anakin's shoulder level near the center of the room. Then it zapped him.

"Ow!"

"I suggest you defend yourself," Dooku said impassively.

"What the...?"

The sphere rotated and zapped Anakin again. It really stung.

"How am I supposed to..."

With a slight, quick rotation, the sphere shot a bolt of light at Dooku. Instantly, the Master countered it with the glowing red blade of his lightsaber.

_Red? I've never seen a red one before_ ... the sphere rotated again. "OW!" Anakin engaged his blue blade, but too late. Those pinpoint blasts HURT.

"Today's lesson is about anticipation and speed." Dooku continued lecturing as if his pupil was not being shot at. "The subtleties of swordsmanship – style and strategy – are of little use if you cannot anticipate what is coming, and from where. This remote ..."

"Ow!" Anakin had felt the next blast coming and swung at it, but missed.

"... has ten settings. This is the easiest."

"Hah!" Anakin countered the next blast in the nick of time, with a clumsy two-handed swing.

"I will not be with you today. I have business elsewhere."

"Huh?" Anakin glanced at Dooku in confusion. Come to think of it, the Count was quite formally dressed ... _oops._ He blocked the next bolt just in time. Better not get distracted...

"I expect you to work your way through the training levels offered by the remote from the simplest..."

"Ugh!" Anakin got zapped again, this time on the tender skin on his neck. He was really starting to get mad.

" ... to the most difficult. When you have completed the set, and find even the most advanced setting easy, you are to begin again from the beginning, only blindfolded."

"What? ... OW!"

"There is a blindfold on the bench. While you go through these exercises, it will be helpful to remember your meditation on the nature of all movement."

Movement, right. _All things are connected._ Anakin crouched a little, giving himself freer range of motion, and successfully blocked three blasts, one after the other.

"Goodbye, Anakin."

_Where is he going, if we're in space?_ "Wait! How long will you..."

But the Count was gone; in that unnerving way he had of being there one moment, and gone the next.

A nasty little blast caught Anakin right on the ear, setting it on fire with pain. That was NOT acceptable! It seemed that the foul thing was gaining altitude. If he wasn't careful, it would get him in the eye.

Anakin forgot about Dooku. He had no choice, if he didn't want to get hurt. His universe narrowed until it contained only two things – his glowing blue lightsaber and the annoying remote. He crouched. He focused. Little by little, the lightsaber became an extension of his will, moving pretty much at the speed of his intention.

Once he had accepted that he was stuck in this place until Dooku returned to release him, it didn't take Anakin long to get into the rhythm of the exercise. In fact, it became quite easy. Although it was clearly programmed to shoot randomly, he soon found himself accurately anticipating the remote's movements. He even got a little bored, until he remembered...

... _this is only level one_.

All right. How to increase the level? Dooku hadn't left any instructions. He had adjusted something on the sphere itself before releasing it, so somehow, Anakin had to get hold of the thing...

_That_ was a nasty battle. He held up his lightsaber blade for protection while he approached the evil little sphere, but the thing kept moving away as he approached, and every time he reached around his blade to grab it, he got zapped. Both of his hands got badly stung before he figured out that rapidly moving his blade very near the remote seemed to overwhelm its sensors long enough for him to grab it. He studied the object in his hand with distaste. It was heavier than he'd thought, and quite alien in its design. Looking at it closely, studying the shape and detailing of its many little ports, Anakin guessed that there were a lot of unpleasant surprises tucked away in the thing's programming. He sighed and sucked on two burning fingers to cool the ache. He wasn't looking forward to the rest of his day.

Dutifully, Anakin figured out how to set a new program and tossed the sphere into the air. Clutching his precious weapon in both hands, Anakin faced up to his choice: get hurt or win.

He decided to win.

Both of the _Veritas'_ unconscious guests had a good night, all things considered, so Dax grudgingly agreed to allow them to be moved into the town's Medicenter the following morning.

Kenobi piloted the large, three-bench speeder. Still unconscious, the man called Popper was securely strapped into the seat beside him. Popper's equally comatose young companion lay stretched out on the seat behind, with his head resting on Vespé's lap. Dax sat by the man's booted feet, keeping a close eye on his color and vital signs. Danil Panaka sprawled sideways on the third bench, one arm stretched along the seat back, and the other holding a high-powered blaster rifle propped on his thigh. The speeder's bubble top allowed for conversation, but it wasn't blastproof. While the Jedi steered a course straight through the wastes, keeping well away from any ridges, Danil kept a sharp lookout.

"He's kind of cute," Vespé murmured. She had been studying her young admirer for some time. Despite slackness that deep unconsciousness gave to his features, she liked his high cheekbones and long dark eyebrows.

"You're joking, right?" Danil retorted, without taking his eyes off the horizon.

"I wonder what he's like?" Vespé persisted. "What is his friend like – the one you had to babysit?"

"A local," Danil said shortly. "And _young_."

"So are you," Vespé pointed out. "So am I, for that matter."

Dax hid a wry smile by looking out at the uninviting landscape.

"There's young, and then there's _young_," Danil growled. "I don't think Kit has held a position of responsibility in his life."

"Not everyone is like us," Vespé pointed out. "Not like the Naboo."

Danil snorted, intending it to be his last comment on the subject, but Vespé still persisted. She always persisted.

"What did Kit say about this one? What did you learn about their lives?"

"The one in your lap is called Lupie. He's Kit's best friend. They grew up together. They're part of a gang around Anakin Skywalker. In fact, when he wasn't crying about Lupie, Skywalker was all Kit talked about. He's their hero." Danil leaned forward. "They all seem kind of lost without him. I think these two are just fooling around, waiting for him to come back."

"How sad," Vespé murmured. Like Danil, she couldn't imagine a life of idleness.

There wasn't much transition between the desert and the town. One moment they were alone in the empty wastes; the next, the town sprang up all around them, teeming with the diversity of beings, vehicles and droids that marked any spaceport town, anywhere.

Popper moaned. Dax reached forward to check the pulse on his neck. "He's fine. Just startin' to wake up."

"We're almost there." The Jedi, who had remained silent throughout the ride, made a small motion with his hand, and Popper quieted.

Danil stowed his rifle on the floor and leaned forward, pointing to a plaza so crowded with vehicles and pedestrians that it barely seemed passable. "Through there. The medicenter isn't far."

Even so, it took ages to get there. The congestion grew worse, the closer they came.

"I don't remember it being this busy, do you?" Vespé asked Danil.

"No. There's definitely something going on."

Patiently, the Jedi pushed the large speeder through narrow, crowded streets. Passers-by peered inside. Soon enough, one or two seemed to recognize its unconscious occupants. Fingers pointed. People shouted. Animals were shoved out of the way so that others could get a better look. Dax finally leaned out of the speeder yelling, "Medical emergency! Let us through!" loudly enough and long enough that gradually, the pedestrian obstacles turned into a kind of procession accompanying the strangers to their destination.

"I've seen front line field infirmaries that looked better," Dax commented when they finally arrived. "Bein' sick in a place like this could kill ya."

As soon as the Jedi halted the speeder, people surged around it.

"Hey! What happened?"

"Who are you?"

"That's Popper! What's going on?"

"Lupie! Look, it's Lupie!"

"Wait here," Kenobi ordered his passengers before climbing out of the speeder. He raised both arms, and the crowd quieted.

"I am Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jedi knight." There were some sharp intakes of breath. "Yesterday, out in the wastes, I found two men from your town who had been attacked by Tuskens. My companions and I have provided them with some medical assistance, but they require immediate care. Please give us the space to move them inside."

Amid the palpable tension between the desire to push closer for a better look and the desire to comply, a man stepped forward to face Kenobi. Tall, brawny, and with a mane of gray hair, he had an air of authority.

"You need help bringing them inside?"

"I think two stretchers would be in order," Kenobi said.

The man pointed at some faces in the crowd. "You, you, you, and you." He jerked his thumb toward the crumbling building. The chosen four sprinted off.

Dax grinned, liking his style.

Once the gray-haired man took over, everything proceeded smoothly. Dax stayed by young Lupie's side and Kenobi stayed with Popper until they had been settled in a shabby room that housed four empty beds. Dax looked around at the sparse medical equipment. Kenobi caught her eye. She shook her head. _Not good._

The gray haired man stood in the doorway, watching them. "Who are you?" he demanded of Dax.

"Medic," she said succinctly.

"What is your business here?"

Dax glanced toward Kenobi. "Just passin' through."

The man ignored Kenobi and kept looking at Dax as if he was making up his mind about something.

"There's somethin' you could help with. If you're so inclined."

"How can we be of service?" Kenobi asked, smoothly including himself in the transaction.

"Got some new medical equipment that just arrived. It's out back. We don't know what to do with it."

Dax and Kenobi exchanged another glance. "Let's get somebody to watch over these two," Dax offered, "and we'll come have a look."

The man nodded, businesslike, but somehow, he looked relieved.

"The name's Remy," he offered by way of introduction. "Follow me."

Nine levels of difficulty and a lot of sweat and animosity later, Anakin was fed up with the endless chore of fighting off injury from a mindless machine. It wasn't even all that hard; by the second level, it had begun to feel a bit like podracing (act first, think later), and by the fourth, he was hardly taking any hits at all. By the sixth, even though the remote's attacks had speeded up considerably, his confidence had soared to a point where he occasionally managed a little twirl or a backswing in his strokes. Just for variety. Because he was getting... _smash!..._ seriously... _smash!..._ bored. Just when he thought he couldn't stand it any longer, the seventh and eighth levels took the battle to a whole new level. The enemy darted all over the training room, making good use of all three dimensions. Anakin became the aggressor and bounded after it, making good use of the ropes, which was quite a trick, considering that one hand was gripping his lightsaber.

He tired quickly, though. He didn't know how long he had been at it, but the exercise was so repetitive that he had just stopped caring.

Then he got to the ninth level. It was just plain hard. He missed a few shots, and realized that the blasts were becoming stronger. The thing was trying to kill him.

_One more level,_ Anakin told himself. _One more, and I'm done. _Technically he shouldn't move on, because he wasn't completely comfortable with level nine yet, but he pushed on anyway because he needed this to be over before he stopped caring whether he died of a thousand tiny blasts or of plain old tedium.

He captured the remote for the last time, at the price of a searing graze to his hand, and reset it for the next level. The tenth. The last! The...

_Oh, no... I still have to do it all over again... blindfolded!_

_NOOOOOOOO!_

Standing there with the hated drone in his hand, Anakin thought of a hundred reasons why he should just quit. A surprising number of them had to do with hunger and thirst, and the rest revolved around better uses of his time. He could stop right now. There was no one around to know. He could just...

Then he had a better idea. Well, maybe not better... but efficient. Certainly efficient.

Keeping a firm grip on the treacherous remote, he retrieved the blindfold from the bench. It was actually a close-fitting hood of a dense material, curved to cover his eyes but leaving his nose and mouth uncovered. He took a few deep breaths to prepare himself. To complete the exercise successfully, he reasoned, all he had to do was to complete the tenth level blindfolded. Since all the levels were designed to lead to that achievement, if he managed the tenth, the others were implicit and he wouldn't have actually _do_ them.

_If _he managed it.

He weighed his options: he could quit, and thereby renege on his commitment to Dooku's teaching, OR he could spend another endless amount of time going through all the levels again, OR he could win it all in one tough but brief battle.

One battle. One. How hard could it be?

As it turned out, Remy's problem equipment was the reason for the excited crowd around the medicenter. As soon as the enormous crate had been unloaded at the spaceport early that morning, word had passed that it was from Anakin. Even after the rumor that he had returned with it was quashed, everyone wanted to see what he'd sent.

Remy passed the bill of lading to Dax, who read it, swore softly, and passed it to Obi-Wan. "I've heard rumors about these things, but I've never seen one. Not even on Coruscant. I heard they're still experimental."

"Any indication where it was shipped from?" Obi-Wan asked casually.

"No." Remy studied the Jedi as carefully as Obi-Wan had studied the documents. "Why do you want to know?"

"Perhaps we should have a look." Obi-Wan led the way into the huge, sophisticated, pressure-locked crate. Inside were the gleaming, alien-looking components of a medical installation even the wealthiest medicenters could only dream of. It was, Dax explained, a fully integrated system, providing every possible diagnostic and therapeutic function in a series of compact components that could be housed in a single room. "It'll do everything for just about any known species," Dax said, awed. "No diagnostic equipment, labs or medics required." She pushed further into the crate. "Look at that, it's got four MedDroids, all independent and mobile. That's a staff right there."

"Any idea where it was made?"

"No. But once we get it up and running, maybe you could ask it."

"It's sentient?"

"Near as you'll get, I reckon. Gotta be, to do what it does."

_Anakin Skywalker,_ Obi-Wan mused, surveying the contents of the crate, and contrasting it with the hardscrabble poverty of the spaceport town. _How – and where – did you get your hands on something like this?" _

Anakin made sure the remote was set for level ten, pulled the hood over his eyes, and threw his enemy across the big training room, hoping the distance would give him a precious extra second or two to adjust. He listened carefully for the little sphere's telltale hum, but the training room was utterly silent. Had he set it wrong? Had it malfunctioned? He was about to remove the hood to check when a blast of pure fire sliced the side of his neck like a knife blade. Anakin screamed, and in a panic, swung his lightsaber in great arcs, trying to achieve a field of protection. But he was swinging blindly, and before long, another searing pain erupted on his back, making him yell with pain.

_Tarsian spitballs!_ The thing was silent, it was circling him, and intensity of the blasts had increased again!

He whirled around, panting with fear, swinging his lightsaber randomly. He heard a hit on his blade, but it was a complete accident. He'd had no sense of what he was doing...

_...Blind... I'm blind! _

But that was the point, wasn't it? He was blind because he was supposed to be able to do this blind. The remote was silent so that he could only succeed by using the Force.

_What I am asking you to do can only be done with the aid of the Force..._

His spinning blade blocked another blast, and another. He hadn't been hit in three blasts. Anakin calmed his breathing and focused, really focused on the familiar, reassuring sound his blade made when he moved it through the air. In his darkness, he dimly remembered the sense of universal connection he'd experienced while meditating with Dooku. Everything was connected... his hand... his sword... the very air in the room... the lousy stinking rotten silent remote that waited out there somewhere to kill him... all connected. He remembered the nature of movement within that connectedness_... if I move, everything moves... if the Other moves, so do I..._

The hairs stood up on his arms and on the back of his neck. The Force sparkled and surged through his limbs. He _saw_ the remote in every detail. Moved toward it. Saw it dip, and dart, and rotate, and _fire_... but he was no longer there when it fired. He was elsewhere, closing in on it, closing...

... without thinking, without any consciousness of the fact that he had moved, Anakin brought his sword blade down on the image in his mind with a two-handed swing that, with a vicious whine, blasted the enemy into shrapnel. He tore off his hood to see splinters of what had once been the remote still bouncing on the training room's polished floor.

Anakin switched off his blade and stood over the shards.

The gifts for Shmi kept coming, which was all right with Cliegg, once he got used to the idea. But pretty soon people started bringing them rather than just leaving them, and asking about Shmi, and expecting to be invited in, and that made him cranky because he was getting less and less work done. Shmi was shy about her disability, and made more uncomfortable than not by her visitors, so Cliegg started getting gruff with them. That created some bad feeling, which made Shmi even more reticent about visitors. Finally, Beru, ever the peacemaker, offered to stay at the Lars farm and take charge of the visitor and gift problem, which relieved Cliegg no end. She was a good girl; he'd always thought so. It also pleased him that as a result, Owen spent a lot more time at home.

On the morning that a tall, slender, cloaked woman petitioned for entry, everyone was home, and no one thought that the arrival of a visitor was strange; until they saw her, that is. When she glided down the long stairway into the atrium, they realized that she was a complete stranger, whose elegant, formal manner and ...well... beauty... were utterly foreign. Beru became tongue-tied in the strange woman's presence, and, helping her off with her cloak, held its unimaginably soft folds as if they might dissolve in her hands.

Cliegg was baffled. Owen, who was lounging at the table over his breakfast, was enthralled. Beru noticed that the woman had not brought a gift.

"I am sorry to intrude on you, and so very grateful that you have granted me your time," the strange woman said, with such court-like formality that mouths hung open all around. "My name is Eirtaé. I am Handmaiden to Padmé Amidala of Naboo."

Well, that just about floored everyone. While Beru (still clutching the exquisite cloak) turned the exotic names over and over in her mind, Cliegg wondered what a Handmaiden was. It was Owen who piped up suddenly, from across the atrium, "You're looking for Anakin, aren't you? Other people from Naboo were asking about him, too, a while back."

The woman named Eirtaé rewarded him with a dazzling smile.

"In fact, on behalf of Senator Amidala, I am looking for his mother, Shmi."

"Shmi!" Cliegg growled. "Why?"

"Many years ago, my Mistress visited your world for a short time. On that occasion, Anakin and his mother showed her and her companions great hospitality. The Senator has never forgotten her kindness. As she is again visiting Tatooine, she hopes that she might be allowed to pay her respects."

It was a short speech, but it contained so many different puzzling pieces that it was met with silence. No one among Eirtaé's small audience had been around during the events she spoke about. They were all trying to match up the stories they'd heard with the things the strange woman was telling them.

A movement on the other side of the atrium made Eirtaé look up. Cliegg followed her glance, and saw Shmi feeling her way along the wall just outside the open space. He hurried to her.

"Shmi, this woman is..."

"I heard," Shmi said thickly, clinging to his arm. "Invite... to sit down."

Beru bustled to put away the cloak, and shyly showed the lofty visitor to the rustic table that was the heart of the Lars farmstead. Shmi hadn't sat there with the family since the accident. Cleigg led her to a chair, made sure she was seated comfortably, and pulled his own chair close to hers. Beru huddled close to Owen.

"I remember Padmé ... sweet ... thoughtful girl," Shmi said slowly. "Anakin adores her... speaks of her. Only ... Anakin says... she is Queen. So young ... is it true?"

The visitor leaned forward, clearly taking in the vicious-looking scar across the side of Shmi's head, her halting speech, and the obvious fact that she was blind. When she replied to Shmi, it was with all the courtesy due a person of high station.

"It is true, Madam. Padmé reigned as Queen for two terms, and then was elected to the Galactic Senate." Eirtaé ignored the others, who stared at her as if she had announced that their suns were about to nova. "She asked me to extend her regret that she has not made contact earlier. It was her understanding that your son was in training with the Jedi. She did not learn until very recently what happened to him."

"It ... matters ... to her? Still? ... very kind..."

"Your son is a hero on Naboo. His welfare is of great interest to us all."

Well, I'll be," Owen said, amazed. "I heard all the stories, but to tell you the truth, I didn't believe half of them."

"Anakin is ... gone," Shmi said. "... offworld."

"So we have learned. Padmé very much regrets having missed him, but she would like to visit you ... if you would permit it."

"I ... would like."

Shmi's family exchanged surprised glances.

Eirtaé rose gracefully and bowed. "Tomorrow, then?"

"Yes," Shmi agreed, involuntarily touching the damaged side of her head.

Beru went a little pale.

"There is one thing," the Handmaiden murmured. "As a political figure, Senator Amidala has many enemies. She asks that you respect her anonymity – " here she shot a significant glance at Owen "– and not discuss her presence here on Tatooine with anyone."

Shmi nodded. Cliegg and Beru stared. Owen looked away.

Eirtaé took her leave quickly and charmingly. Beru retrieved her cloak, and the mysterious visitor was gone before anyone could enquire how she had gotten there or whether she needed an escort back to wherever she had come from.

"The things Anakin gets up to," Cliegg mused. The stars only know what he's doing now."

"A Galactic Senator is coming here!" Beru moaned. "Tomorrow! Everything's so untidy!"

"Padmé ... won't ... mind," Shmi said firmly.

"It's arranged for tomorrow," Eirtaé said into her communicator.

"Understood." Obi-Wan's voice was hushed, as if he might be overheard.

"By the time she arrives, half the planet will know of her presence and that she is visiting Anakin's mother, I guarantee it."

"Well done." Even in those two quiet words, Eirtaé thought she detected a note of warmth, which pleased her.

She looked up at her escort. "On to the rendezvous point."

"You wanted to see me, My Lady?" Captain Typho stepped hesitantly into Padmé's bedroom. Had any of her Handmaidens been there, he wouldn't have dreamed of intruding that far. But she was alone, and insisted on speaking with him.

Padmé sat up in bed, blinking. Apparently she had dozed off again. "I just want to know what is going on. Where is everyone?"

Typho explained the transfer of the two local men off the _Veritas,_ and Eirtae's mission.

"If your men are with Eirtaé, and nearly everyone else is in town, are only you and I left here?"

"Not quite, My Lady. Two of my men are here, and Rhea is in the galley, getting you something to eat."

"Does that seem ..." Padmé struggled to find a polite way to say it. "... does that seem wise to you? Considering?"

"Please don't worry, My Lady. Dax assured us that you are fine on your own for a few hours. She left detailed instructions for Rhea."

"I'm more concerned about us ... the ship ... sitting here unguarded."

Typho grinned unexpectedly. "Who said we're sitting?

Suddenly Padmé became aware of the vibration of the ship's engines. "Where are we?"

"In orbit over Tatooine. High enough to stay safe while everybody's busy. Surely you didn't think that Master Kenobi would just leave you there in the desert?"

"Frankly, Captain, I no longer know what to think."

"Don't worry, My Lady. It's all in hand." The Captain bowed and hastily let himself out.

Left alone again, Padmé stumbled to the fresher where she bathed her face and neck in water so cold it made her splutter.

When she caught a glimpse of her face in the narrow mirrored panel over the basin, she stopped to stare at it, trying to reconcile the wan, fragile-looking face in the mirror with the image of the person she was supposed to be.

They were nothing alike.

Studying her reflection through narrowed eyes, she remembered all the different faces she had worn throughout her life – the young girl, the student, the Queen, the Senator. The face in the glass – pale and troubled – was so unlike them that it could have been a mask. But then, she had worn many masks in her life. Was the worn-out face with the bruised-looking eyes yet another one, or had it lain beneath them all?

_This can't be who I am. Padmé Amidala has to be strong._

"You have a destiny," people had insisted all her life. "You will do great things." They had showered her with their hopes, lifted her onto their shoulders and proclaimed her their national treasure – a jewel beyond price, to be protected at all costs.

Gritting her teeth, Padmé plunged her hands into the icy water again and splashed her face with two stinging handfuls, rubbing hard, as if she could scrub some life and spirit back into it.

_Strength. Purpose. Effectiveness._ That was what her people needed from her. They thought her so valuable that others willingly gave their lives to preserve hers.

Reaching for a towel, she again squinted into the glass, straining to see the face of a woman who was worth that.

She wasn't there.

Sequestered, sheltered and idle, she was useless; and yet further lives were being risked and vast resources spent to protect her.

If she could not do her work, of what value was she? And even if the situation was quickly resolved and she returned to the Senate, was that value enough? Could she –did she – actually make a difference as one tiny voice among thousands, or was her life on Coruscant just another form of expensively maintained isolation?

Crawling back into bed, Padmé sat huddled among the pillows with her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Her thoughts returned to Anakin, as they so often had since Vespé's report. Remembering the hovel where he and his mother had lived, she suddenly felt ashamed about all the precious water she had unthinkingly used to bathe her face.

Anakin's life had been so different from hers; so hard, so impoverished. And yet, without any of the privileges and advantages that Padmé had enjoyed all her life, he had accomplished great feats on behalf of his people – near miracles, in some cases.

Padmé closed her eyes. _Where are you, Anakin?_ She longed for the opportunity to speak with him, heart to heart. Among all the people that surrounded her, there wasn't anyone with whom she could share her doubts – and certainly not her fears – about the value her life and her work. Even Eirtaé, her friend since childhood, would be appalled by Padmé's weakness. The Naboo did not sanction despair.

In a warm place somewhere behind her closed eyes, Padmé again remembered the sunny little blond slave boy swinging his feet in a filthy shop, proclaiming, "I am a _person,_ and my name is Anakin Skywalker!" How confident he had been! How fully and completely himself! That little boy had been beaten down many times, and yet he had grown up to be a hero.

Looking back, it seemed he couldn't have done otherwise.

She didn't really know Anakin at all – not any more. But she knew about his deeds, and thought she knew enough about his struggles, to think that he might understand hers. At least, he would be honest with her. She was sure of that. The boy she had known was incapable of lying. And perhaps... just perhaps... he could show her how to find her courage again ... her center ... her faith in herself and her work.

The cabin door opened with a whisper. Young Rhea crept in, carrying a tray.

Padmé surreptitiously wiped away a stray tear and did her best to smile. "Come here, Mouse." She patted the bed beside her. "Come and tell me everything that is happening out there. Especially the things they don't want me to know."

As Anakin's fierce battle focus dissipated, he looked around the training room, unsure what to do next. No doubt the lesson with the remote had been designed to keep him occupied all day.

He rubbed his sweaty face with the back of his sleeve. Where _was_ Dooku? If he _had_ left the ship, it was entirely possible that Anakin was the only living being on the entire yacht, which made him a little nervous. On the other hand, if he was the only living being on the ship, it was his to explore...

Out of habit, since he had never ended a lesson any other way, he headed back toward his suite, thinking vaguely that he'd get Threepio to find him some food. Then maybe he'd go have a look at those battle droids...

Food, yes. Definitely food! He speeded up his pace until he was jogging through the _Serena's _empty corridors. When he burst through the doorway to his suite, his enthusiasm dissipated. It was as empty and silent as the rest of the ship.

"Threepio?"

No answer.

"Threepio?"

Anakin finally found him standing in the corner of the bedchamber, switched off. Frowning, Anakin slid his fingers along his droid's mirror polished neck covering until he found the switch to reactivate him.

"Oh, Master Ani! I seem to have been asleep again!"

"Who switched you off, Threepio? Do you remember?"

"I'm afraid I don't," Threepio admitted reluctantly. "I'm very sorry – "

"Don't worry about it," Anakin cut him off. "Could you go find me something to eat? I'm starving."

"Of course, Master Ani!"

Still frowning, Anakin watched Threepio bustle away. After he'd eaten, maybe he ought to use the time to figure out whether any modifications had been made to Threepio's programming when he'd been serviced. He couldn't imagine why anyone would do such a thing, but the notion had been nagging at him, In his experience, it was wise to follow up those nagging feelings.

He sank down on the edge of the big bed to think.

On the other hand, he would need to use the _Serena's_ tools and computational equipment to conduct the analysis. There was no way to do that without leaving traces. If Threepio had been tampered with, it might be better not to make his suspicions known. Perhaps it was a puzzle best left until he was back home and had complete privacy to work on it.

_Home._

Anakin's thoughts returned to Tatooine like a compass needle to its magnetic North. In Dooku's mesmeric presence, Anakin never gave a thought to anything but the lessons or the work at hand. Only when he was alone did he remember the other parts of his life.

This time, perhaps because he was truly alone, those memories returned more vividly than ever. He could practically taste the desert wind. He saw the wastes at sunset, and the star-strewn night sky. He thought of his mother, and of the troubling dream in which she hadn't even recognized him. Somewhat guiltily, he remembered the anxious faces of the people who had seen him off on his journey.

For some reason, he thought of Padmé, too, as if she was part of Tatooine again, a girl with a long braid, listening seriously to every word he said.

How strange and wonderful it was to remember her that way! For years, since his return to Tatooine, he had allowed himself to think of her only as a Queen, distant and unapproachable.

_We will tell her goodbye for you. We are sure her heart goes with you._

Anakin had taken the lesson to heart. Padmé had befriended an unwitting child; but the Queen, although kind, was so far above him as to be unreachable. Padmé, as it turned out, was the Queen, and the Queen belonged to everyone. Not to him.

And yet ... here and now, on this strange, silent ship, Padmé appeared in his thoughts as warm and present as when they first met. Anakin closed his eyes and allowed the memories to wash over him.

_Many things will change when we reach the capital, Annie. My caring for you will always remain._

Padmé was no longer Queen, but a Senator. _And_ she had searched for him. What did it mean?

Eventually Anakin came back to himself and looked around the richly furnished suite. All of a sudden, it felt like a dead end. A trap.

Where _was_ Dooku? How long would he be away?

Unwilling to just sit around waiting for his teacher to return, Anakin jumped up and went out into the corridor. There was no sign of Threepio yet.

Perhaps... perhaps it was time to think about moving on? He could arrange another time for another series of lessons. He wanted to see whether the new MedDroid had arrived, and how his mother was doing. He needed to find a way to sell the water technology, to which he had hardly given any thought. He needed to touch base with the gang...

Anakin leaned against the wall in the softly lit corridor, wondering once again what he was actually doing on the _Serena,_ and why. The training was (for the most part) exhilarating, and he was honored that someone like Dooku would think him a worthy student. Dooku was a masterful teacher; in only a few lessons, Anakin had grown confident that he could succeed at any challenge that he was given. That was an incredible weight off his soul. But there was so much to learn. It might take months, even years, to gain a decent level of competence. He couldn't remain here that long. Nor, surely, could Dooku...

Finally, he glimpsed Threepio turning a corner up ahead, carrying a tray. Anakin hurried to meet him.

"Thanks, Threepio. Wait for me back in the suite, OK?"

Grabbing a few portable items of food off the tray, Anakin headed in the direction that he thought led to the _Serena's_ bridge. After a long walk and a few wrong turns he found it, gained access with the help of a nearby droid, and let himself in.

It was unnervingly empty. Fully automated, no doubt. And – Anakin stared out the forward viewscreen – cruising (waiting?) not far from a ringed planet of some kind. Anakin settled himself in front of the nav. computer and called up the local star charts.

_Geonosis._ That was the name of the rusty-red, ringed planet just beyond. He'd never heard of it, even though it was part of the Arkanus Sector, the same as Tatooine.

His eyes slid across the star charts. There it was. _Home._ It called to him in a way that surprised him. Was he homesick? He didn't think so. Homesickness felt sad and lost. Homesickness was a kind of longing. This felt different. It felt like... a call.

How strange.

He could just go. He could collect Threepio, find his ship, and go home.

As his hand hovered over the star charts as if he could somehow divine his path, another screen nearby caught his eye. It took a moment to decipher the symbols, but then he recognized it as a tracking device. He looked more closely. It was displaying the signal for Dooku's sailship, which, if he read it right, was on the planet just beyond.

Anakin's drifting hand came to rest on the console beside the screen.

If he left without saying anything, Dooku would never offer to teach him again. Of that he was certain. He could find a way to leave a message... but no. That was just as bad. Leaving without first discussing it with Dooku would seal his fate forever, and Anakin was not willing to give up his training just when he was beginning to make real progress...

His eyes drifted back to the other side of the star chart. A _message_. He had promised Remy that he would let him know that he was all right, but he hadn't sent a single one yet. _That_ was what he would do.

He jumped up to find the comms. console, and then thought the better of it. If he was going to send a message, it ought to come from his own ship. Dooku was so secretive about everything. If Anakin carelessly gave the Serena's position away as a result of his transmission, Dooku the Genial Host might well become Dooku the Get Off My Ship and Never Come Back.

With the help of the bridge's computers, it didn't take Anakin long to locate his ship. He sprinted all the way to the far docking bay. There it was, looking shabbier than ever compared with the splendors he had seen. He climbed inside, activated the transponder, and then sat for a moment, munching his food, and wondering what to say.

Finally, he signaled,

_All is well. _

_A MedDroid is on its way – please see that Mom gets treatment._

_I have found a teacher – will be away longer._

_Anakin_

That would do for now.

His mission accomplished, Anakin lingered in the cockpit. Idly, he switched on the nav. computer and located Geonosis.

Then he charted a route to the planet's surface, to the coordinates of Dooku's sailship, which he happened to have memorized.

Then he started the engines.

All these actions seemed quite natural to him. They didn't require much thought. He kept going. It was good to have a goal.

The landing bay doors posed more of a challenge, but he routed a request to the Serena's bridge, and eventually they opened.

That was it. The old cargo ship shuddered and steamed out the landing bay doors and out among the stars.

The planet called Geonosis expanded before him, filling his viewscreen. He avoided going through the rings, but marveled at their beauty from afar... and scrambled to compensate for the gravitational and magnetic disruptions they caused.

Any last, lingering thoughts of home disappeared when he entered the alien planet's gravitational field. Landing in its red dust, in the shadows of a monstrous, hive-like structure, made him shiver with excitement.

Dooku was there. Anakin could sense his presence as clearly as anything.

Gripping his lightsaber, he stepped out onto the alien world.


	13. Chapter 12 Ricochet

**My dearest readers, **

**Many apologies for the long time between posts. Real life got very busy and I couldn't find the time to write. I'm back on a reasonable writing schedule now, though, and although I don't know that I'll be able to post as regularly as I did before, rest assured that the story will continue right through to the end. **

**Thanks so much for bearing with me! **

**As always, if you like what youre reading, please take the time to leave me a note! It makes the writing go even better... * grin ***

**Much love, Geo3**

**Chapter 12. Ricochet**

The Jedi's arrival hit Mos Espa like a dust devil; localized at first, but quickly sucking in a large swathe of the surroundings. In combination with the arrival of a major gift from Anakin, the storm of interest caused by the presence of a Jedi on Tatooine centered on Mos Espa's only medicenter.

The installation of the new medical facility was a highly complex job that would have required a team of specialists. Lacking that, it had to be managed using a combination of Dax's basic savvy, Kenobi's seemingly endless patience with solving complex problems, and Remy's access to resources such as droids and tools of all kinds and descriptions, energy sources, and even legions of hand laborers when it was determined that a whole new section would have to be added onto the medicenter to accommodate the sophisticated new installation. That gave a lot of people the perfect excuse to hang around and get in the way.

Obi-Wan was dismayed by the amount of attention he and Dax generated. Celebrity of any kind was his idea of a nightmare. Still, he deliberately had set out to ingratiate himself with Anakin's people, so he did his best to remain visible and accessible, learned names, and generally engaged with both the helpers and the gawkers as much as possible.

What concerned Obi-Wan the most was the need to expand the existing building, because it lengthened the project considerably. Initially he had been willing to devote a day or two to the installation to ingratiate himself with the populace. But even with Remy's seemingly unending resources, the new portion of the building was likely to take a long time to complete – time Obi-Wan was unable to commit. And after a very long day of intensive work together, analyzing and planning, Remy seemed to take it for granted that Dax and the Jedi were there to see the project through to the end.

It was near sunset when Obi-Wan took Remy aside for a heart to heart talk.

"Realistically, how long do you think it will take to finish the building extension?"

Remy stared out toward the setting suns, frowning. He must have been calculating, because his answer was a succinct, "One standard week. I think I can scrounge up all the materials locally."

"That's a fast pace," Obi-Wan observed. "You're in a hurry to get this done."

"The equipment was sent to us for a reason. We need to get it working." Remy turned to stare at Obi-Wan. "You're going to keep helping us, right?"

"We will help while we can, but I can't promise that we will be here even for a week. In fact, Dax is needed elsewhere right now. We didn't anticipate remaining here all day as it was."

The burly desert man looked expressionlessly down at his data pad. Only the tiny, telltale droop of his shoulders revealed his disappointment – that, and the tinge of bitterness when he said, "Why are you here, anyway? You people from the Core don't generally come out all this way unless you want something."

Obi-Wan braced himself. This was quite possibly the moment he had been waiting for.

"I am actually here looking for Anakin Skywalker," he said carefully. "Perhaps you know how I can reach him?"

Remy's face remained impassive, but the sudden tension in his body was palpable. "Could be," he said neutrally. "It might depend on why you're looking for him."

Obi-Wan nodded. "I know Anakin. I was his Jedi Master." Noting the surprise in Remy's eyes, he added, "I am escorting a person who met him long ago, and would like to re-establish contact. A dignitary, whose identity I am not at liberty to reveal."

It worked. Oh, how it worked. Remy was hooked – Obi-Wan could see it in his eyes. The combination of honesty and mystery was the perfect bait. But the big desert man was no fool.

"His Jedi Master, eh?" Remy tossed the datapad aside as if the conversation was idle and casual. "So how come he never mentioned you?"

Obi-Wan smiled. "Tell me, Remy, does Anakin ever talk about his experiences as a Jedi? To anyone?"

"No..." Remy shook his head thoughtfully.

"Well, then." Obi-Wan shrugged. "It is our way."

"Huh." Remy studied him openly and at length.

"Do you know where Anakin is?" Obi-Wan persisted. "It is important that I speak with him."

Remy casually scratched the back of his neck. "You comin' to the cantina tonight? The boys and I like to stop for a drink after sunset."

So. Remy wanted him to be assessed by the clan before offering any further information. Clearly Obi-Wan would have to be vetted by the rest of the group before further information came his way.

"I have to get Dax back to... our lodgings. I may stop by later."

"Bring her. She's welcome.

Obi-Wan shook his head. "Like I said, she is needed elsewhere."

"For the _dignitary_?" Remy said the word carefully, as if he had never pronounced it before.

Obi-Wan merely shrugged. Remy cracked the ghost of a smile. They both understood about secrets.

"I guess I'll see you later, Jedi."

Obi-Wan stepped outside the squat building into long shadows, and looked up at the gloriously painted evening sky. It seemed that the bargain was made... he would get access to Anakin in return for help with the medicenter installation.

What he needed was to figure out was how to make the installation happen. And fast.

Sand. Rock. A vast dome of starry sky. The air smelled of common minerals and even more common dust, although an alien stench hung over the giant mound structures. Clearly, similar forces had shaped the brother planets of Geonosis and Tatooine, and perhaps all the ones in between. Anakin moved easily among the shadows, light-footed and silent. A desert man.

A short climb up a rocky wall put him in a position to view a barren plain dotted with steaming exhaust ports, and lit by the presence of innumerable huge ships. He squatted on his heels to study them; hardly believing that he had found something so familiar on a strange world.

Trade Federation starships. He would know them anywhere.

He had left the transponder with Dooku's coordinates behind in his ship because he didn't need it. (It was amazing, really; his sense of the man's presence was as strong as if they were standing side by side.) Instead, he had brought a small night vision field viewer, with which he searched the plain. Dooku's distinctive sailship was nowhere in sight, but all of Anakin's instincts pointed him in the direction of another stalactite-type structure not far away.

Unhesitatingly, Anakin leaped off his perch (a leap he might have hesitated to make only a few days before) and efficiently picked his way down the slope to an area of even deeper shadow beneath a wall of rock. Hunched over to remain entirely within the shadow, he scuttled along the wall until, rounding the base of the enormous hive, he came upon Dooku's ship hidden in one of the great undulating folds of the building's base. The place was deserted, so where there was a ship, there was likely to be an entrance...

He found it right away, a dark arch leading to a winding stairway carved out of ancient rock, reddish even in that faint light. The stairway beyond was unlit, but Anakin entered without pause. He had come this far; nothing could stop him...

... except, briefly, his first glimpse of the inside of the structure. When he reached the top of the stairs, he stood stock-still, gazing around in wonder. He had guessed the interior's overall size, but not the soaring architecture or the rough beauty and complexity of its decoration. He also hadn't expected to find the place alive with a deep, distant thrumming, like a starship with massive engines on full thrust. Every surface vibrated subtly with the sound.

Another series of narrow, rusty red stone steps wound further upward, hugging the heavily patterned wall. Anakin took them by twos, the thrumming sound growing louder with each step. When he arrived on a narrow balcony that hung precariously over an enormous open space, could feel the vibration down into his bones.

One look over the balustrade showed him why. He leaned over it, staring with all of his might. Far below was a violent mosaic of fire and noise, of gigantic crashing machines threaded together by a vast web of moving belts. It appeared to be a factory – an enormous multi-level factory of such complexity that it took him a few moments to understand what was being manufactured.

Droids.

It was a droid foundry.

The high, open vault of the mounds interior space puzzled him. There didn't seem to be any way to get down or across easily. The only stairs and corridors hugged the sides of the structure, and seemed an inefficient way to get around, considering the sophistication of the factory below.

A shadow swooped across the vaulted space, and then another. He squinted, trying to make them out. A rustling sound and a waft of air on his cheek made him look up in time to see an enormous winged insect-like being soar away from the wall directly over his head, then circle the open space several times before landing several levels below. Hastily he ducked back into the shadows.

Flight. Of course. The space was designed for flying creatures... and perhaps just a few that required stairs, like himself.

Anakin took a deep breath, reminding himself sternly that he was an interloper and not a tourist. He had no idea how the locals felt about visitors, and besides, he was on a mission. Rubbing his sweaty palms on his tunic, he crept back to the winding staircase and decided to head... where?

It was decided for him. The faint sound of voices drifted up from somewhere below.

A good deal more cautiously this time, Anakin crept back down the stairs, trying to disturb as few molecules as possible. The closer he came to actually finding his teacher, the harder he found it to imagine how he would explain to the Count of Serenno just why he had felt it necessary to track him down and... well... to spy on him. Because that was what he was doing – he was creeping around a strange factory on an alien planet, trying hard not to be seen.

He barely understood it himself.

The voices grew louder. The rock wall beside the stairs was carved in great folds, like drapery. Anakin ran his fingers along them until the stairway ended in a kind of alcove formed by organic-looking columns. From the alcove, Anakin was able to look down on a broad walkway directly below, clearly a path to someplace important. The voices were practically beneath him. He crouched in the shadows to watch and listen.

_"... I am quite convinced that ten thousand more systems will rally to our cause with your support, gentlemen. And let me remind you of our absolute commitment to capitalism..."_

That was Dooku. Anakin recognized his voice (and even more, his presence) before the group emerged from beneath his perch.

_"... and to lower taxes, reduced tariffs, and the eventual abolition of all trade barriers. Signing this treaty will bring you profits beyond your wildest imagination... What we are proposing is completely free trade. Our friends in the Trade Federation have pledged their support..."_

Anakin leaned around the pillar to see. There were seven of them, all different species, all formally robed, with Dooku in the lead. Beside the Count was a flat-faced being who looked vaguely familiar...

_"Not so fast, Count",_ the one walking beside Dooku rasped. "_What about the Senator from Naboo? Is she dead yet? I'm not signing your treaty until I have her head on my desk."_

Anakin felt as if he'd been plasma shocked. Padmé? Was Dooku talking about Padmé?

_"I am a man of my word, Viceroy. Be patient. She will die."_

Anakin forgot to breathe. His fingers gripped the pillar like a vise.

Among the party below, a gnarled insectoid carrying an enormous staff clicked and whistled something incomprehensible.

_"Indeed, your Highness", _Dooku replied._ "When your Battle Droids are combined with the Trade Federation's, we shall have an army greater than anything in the Galaxy. The Jedi will be overwhelmed. The Republic will agree to any demands we make."_

Stupidly, pathetically, Anakin's knees buckled. He slid down beside the pillar, bone-white knuckles streaked red from torn fingertips.

_"... now we must persuade the others to sign the treaty..."_

Anakin didn't know who said it. He could no longer see the walkway below. He could no longer see anything. Breathing hard, his thoughts clashing together chaotically, he stared at a blank.

He didn't see Dooku lean over to the insectoid and whisper something.

He didn't see the staff wave in the air, instantly calling up a swarm of the flying ones out of clefts in the rock walls.

He didn't notice the swarm swoop toward the alcove in which he slumped, reeling from the sudden rearrangement of his universe.

He only became aware of his peril when it was too late; when a cloud of wings descended on him and claws grasped him everywhere, preventing his clumsy attempt to free his lightsaber. Not caring whether they gripped clothes, skin, or hair, his captors lifted him between the pillars and down, down, down into a dark place underground...

Obi-Wan found Dax at the very back of the medicenter, smoking and chatting with a clutch of Remy's men, and looking thoroughly at ease. When she saw him, she casually stubbed out her cigar on the heel of her boot.

"Gotta go," she said to the group.

Protests arose. "Come to the Cantina with us! You can't go without a drink!"

Dax shook her head. "Love to, but no. Another time."

Somebody spotted Obi-Wan hanging back by the doorway. "Hey, Jedi, you come, too!"

Obi-Wan remembered to smile, and inclined his head graciously. "Thank you, but duty calls."

The protests died down. Dax, it seemed, was a lot easier to argue with than the Jedi.

Once safely in the big speeder in which they had arrived that morning (it seemed so long ago) Dax leaned back comfortably and asked, "Where're the kids?" She meant Vespé and Danil, who had left the medicenter at midday and not been back since.

"I sent them to do a little reconnaissance. They should be back at the ship by now."

"Busy day."

"I think we made headway."

If Dax expected any further illumination, it wasn't forthcoming.

"Are we coming back tomorrow?" she asked after a while.

Obi-Wan glanced at her. She looked as weary as he felt. "Do you have a reason for wanting to?"

"Damn straight I do. Remy promised me a whole box of Correllian Imperials. Top of the line cigars. He said they've got a shipment coming in tomorrow."

"I see." Dusk was falling fast. They were leaving the town behind, and the rendezvous point was a good distance into the desert. "You might want to grab that blaster rifle."

Dax twisted around in her seat and, to her surprise, found the weapon on the floor in the back, just where Danil had left it. Spaceport towns weren't the kind of place you could leave something in your speeder and expect to see it again when you returned. She hoisted the gun over and propped it on her thigh. "You must really be in good with the locals. It's still here."

"I'm not the one being offered a whole box of Corellian Imperials," Obi-Wan grinned.

Dax studied him. "So we _are_ goin' back?"

"I'm in the midst of a dilemma, Dax. The whole installation is going to take a lot of time. We can't commit to staying here indefinitely. We need to be flexible enough to move on at a moment's notice. And yet ..."

"And yet it's the perfect way to be everybody's favorite Jedi. I got that."

Obi-Wan sighed. "Yes."

"I also got that you're interested in a party called Anakin Skywalker."

It was Obi-Wan's turn to study Dax. "That is true." He hadn't discussed any of the business at hand with Dax, which meant that his conversation with Remy had made the rounds at roughly the speed of light.

"Do you know why they're in such a hurry to get the medicenter set up with the new stuff?"

"No." Obi-Wan had made a point of _not_ asking. Remy over-reacted to nosiness.

"Well, apparently that guy Skywalker sent it so his mother could get top-notch treatment, and fast."

"His mother?" that caught Obi-Wan by surprise. Perhaps his extra caution had been an error.

"Yep. Seems she's in a bad way from a Tusken attack a while back. Getting' help is the reason he went away – only he sent the equipment and didn't come back yet. The guys are all wonderin' what he's up to."

"So am I," Obi-Wan muttered.

_Anakin's mother... _

It was pitch dark in the desert. Through the distortion of the speeder's bubble top, the stars seemed faint and far away. Dax's hold on the blaster rifle tightened. Obi-Wan could feel her tension. He made an effort to exude calm, but the day of being a local celebrity had taken a toll on him. It was an unnatural state for a Jedi, and an even more unnatural one for Obi-Wan Kenobi. He felt off, uncentered. He longed for the opportunity to meditate, to restore within himself the balance that only the Force could bring. He flew on silently for a while, lost in thought. Dax knew enough not to interrupt him with idle chatter.

_An assignment we have for you, Obi-Wan, unlike any other you have been given... explore, if you can, the paths that the Force seems to obscure._

_Of all the places in the Galaxy, why Tatooine, Masters?_

_Because, Obi-Wan, your former Padawan is there. All the paths we were shown begin with him. _

Was he taking the right approach? Would helping Anakin's people bring him any further forward in his impossible-seeming task? The only thing he was sure of was that on Tatooine, at least, everything did seem to center around Anakin, whether he was present or not. And now his mother...

"You all right, Jedi?"

For the first time, Obi-Wan became aware that the speeder was slowing.

"Oh, yes... I'm sorry, Dax. I was just thinking."

He slowed to a complete stop and stared out into the dark for a while. Then he tossed Dax his communicator.

"I need to know how Senator Amidala is faring. Speak to Eirtaé she will have the most comprehensive view. Find out whether the Senator can do without you for another day or so."

Dax took the device and for a while, transformed from soldier and laid-back comrade to crisp, exacting medic. While Dax spoke, Obi-Wan watched the surroundings with only part of his awareness, while otherwise lost in thought. An idea was forming – a growing sense of what he must do. But part of him wished that it would just go away.

Dax brought him back with a tap on his shoulder. "She wants to talk to you. The Handmaiden."

Obi-Wan took the device, suddenly eager to hear that familiar voice.

"Eirtaé?"

"Master Kenobi, Senator Amidala would very much like to know what is going on." She sounded formal and distant. Obi-Wan was inexplicably disappointed.

"I gather that the Senator is feeling better, and that she can do without Dax for another day or two," he said quietly.

"That is so."

Obi-Wan stared upward through the speeder's bubble top, trying to make out the stars. "Have Danil and Vespé arrived?"

"They have, with full descriptions of how you and Dax spent your day."

"We're going back to town," Obi-Wan said. Dax looked at him in surprise. "It is important that Senator Amidala keeps her appointment to visit Anakin's mother tomorrow. In fact, if the visit goes well, I hope that she will be willing to spend as much time at the Lars farm as possible. The medicenter will be finished in a day or two. It would be ideal if Senator Amidala were to accompany Anakin's mother there when the time comes."

There was a small pause. "Very well."

"Use your judgment, Eirtaé – about the Senator's visit, about her rapport with the Lars' – about everything. I am relying on your perception and discretion. I can't do this without you."

There was another small pause. "I understand," Eirtaé said, but to Obi-Wan's ear, the undertone of her words was less brittle.

"And Eirtaé – I'll need Danil and Vespé in town in the morning. I'll send back the speeder for them."

"Consider it done. Go safely, both of you." Her voice definitely sounded warmer, despite its tinge of concern. Obi-Wan felt better.

"Always."

He tucked the communicator away and looked at Dax. "I'm sorry about this. But I just realized what I need to do."

"You're the boss, Boss."

Obi-Wan smiled and fired up the speeder. She _was_ a good soldier, the best.

Having settled within himself how he must approach his task, Obi-Wan's center returned, and with it, his customary focus. As if mocking him for his earlier lack of concentration, the Force showed him just how inattentive he had been.

With no more warning than a quick "Hang on, Dax!" Obi-Wan slammed on the brakes, gunned the throttle, and spun the speeder 360 degrees in a great whoosh of sand.

"Whoa!" Dax yelled, battling with gravity to hold onto the rifle. In the glow of the speeder's sidelights, the clouds of sand outlined an apparition: an enormous, hulking animal, rearing up high above them in fright. A chilling cry arose from multiple voices outside in the dark, muffled by the speeder's protective top.

"I thought so," Obi-Wan said with preternatural calm, abruptly cutting all of the speeders lights and slamming the shifter into high gear like a race pilot. "Hold tight."

"Like hell," Dax snapped, twisting around in the dark to prop the muzzle of the blaster rifle across the back of her seat. "You fly. I'll shoot."

"Hopefully, that will not be necessary." The big speeder bucked in protest, and then flattened out into a speed that would have thrilled its designers. The unrelieved darkness was oppressive and disorienting. "I doubt they can see us any more than we can see them."

Dax settled back into her seat. "What _was_ that?"

"A bantha. There were three, I think, all with riders."

"Shspit...!"

"It's all right. We've left them far behind." Obi-Wan wanted to check the dash panels instruments, but kept the lights off, just in case. No matter. He had his bearings again, and would not repeat his mistake of allowing his awareness of the surroundings to dim. To reassure Dax, he added cheerfully, "I don't know about you, but I could use a hot meal."

"What I could use," Dax muttered, "is a drink."

In flight, there was nothing Anakin could do, but the moment his winged captors released him on the sandy floor of some kind of a high, cell-like room, he fought them with everything he had. The wits that had failed him up on the alcove returned, heightened by anger and fueled by shame and fear.

The hot shame was his own – for his sheer stupidity and carelessness, for his failure and incompetence. The fear – cold, twisting, and primal – was not for himself. It was for the girl from Naboo whose spirit had entered his child's heart and grown up with him, as much a part of him now as his blood and his breath.

_They want to kill Padme._

_Dooku is part of it._

He didn't wait until he was fully released before fighting back. Ripping his arm away from the last claw, heedless of the shredding of cloth and skin, he dropped to the ground and rolled violently against the nearest creature's feet, toppling it. In a flash he was on top of it, striking with a screaming blue blade, noting in some objective part of his mind that it severed bone and flesh even more easily than metal. Wildly he threw himself at the next creature, hacking off its wing and then the head that screamed.

Something grabbed him from behind. He hacked stabbed backward with his blade, not knowing his target, just wanting to destroy. Another scream, and the hold loosened. In his second major mistake of the day, Anakin whirled around to finish off the creature behind him without first looking up. Something knocked his lightsaber out of his hand in mid-swing with a sickening crack. His wrist flared into hot pain. His weapon fell. Wings covered his eyes. Claws grasped him all over. He thought he heard the word Jedi spoken in a strange whistle. Powerful hands, ending in claws, held him in mid-air with his arms and legs splayed. The more he struggled, the deeper the claws sank into his flesh.

Something sizzled sharply, like a power coupling, and the pungent smell of ozone raised the hairs all over this body. The claws released him, the wings moved away, and when he could see again he was utterly immobilized by flaring plasma binders around his ankles and wrists. To make it worse, he was turning like a strip of meat on a spit, forced to rake the spinning room with his eyes. Even if he closed them, it made him dizzy.

Once he was secure and helpless, the remaining creatures busied themselves with gathering the mangled corpses of those Anakin had killed – a head here, a wing there. Without a further glance, they dragged their dead outside the cell, leaving Anakin twisting in the center of the room, facing again and again the residues of violence left on in the cell's floor – the scratches, the scattered piles of sand and rock, the dark pools of alien blood. They left him alone and helpless with his humiliation and his fear, and with the searing pain in his wrist that nothing could alleviate. They left him with all the questions that had blindsided him, utterly uncertain about his fate.

Mercifully, the pain began to blot out everything else. Soon all that was left was endurance; and that, at least, was something he was good at.

The Cantina in Mos Eisley was a low, rambling structure full of nooks and crannies, crammed with locals and spacers from all over the Galaxy. The spacers seemed even more attuned to the presence of a Jedi than the locals. While Dax headed straight for the bar, many sets of eyes watched Obi-Wan search for Remy and his crew.

He found them all the way at the back, at a table that looked as if it was set aside for regulars. The gang was assembled. Obi-Wan knew every face from earlier in the day.

"So you did come." Remy leaned back in his seat and waved around the table. "You all know the Jedi."

Obi-Wan nodded to everyone and tried to remember to look pleasant and accessible. Since there wasn't another seat, he squatted down next to Remy. "I've been thinking. How fast do you want to get this medicenter job done?"

"I want it yesterday."

"All right. Are you willing to work all night?"

Remy took a drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Sure. Why?"

"Are they?" Obi-Wan indicated the others, who had fallen silent, listening.

"What do you have in mind, Jedi?"

Quickly Obi-Wan outlined the resources he would need.

Remy frowned. "I guess I can get all the materials, but I don't see how this makes it happen faster, except by a night. Why not wait until morning? It's going to take as long as it takes."

"Well, that is where I come in. If you get the materials and the labor, I'll make it happen fast. Really fast."

Remy studied his face, frowning, and then looked around the others. "Well? You all up to it?"

Murmurs of assent, probably fueled more by curiosity than any real desire to work all night, brightened into cheery greetings when Dax appeared behind Obi-Wan juggling two jugs of mud beer and two bowls of steaming food. She banged one of each down on the table in front of him.

"I don't know what yer up to, Jedi, but eat first. Medic's orders."

"Whatever you say, Dax," Obi-Wan agreed humbly.

Everyone laughed, even Remy. Seats appeared for Obi-Wan and Dax. While they ate, Remy fired off a rapid series of orders to the men around the table, sending some to obtain materials and droids, and others for more laborers.

"And don't forget the floodlamps. We're working through the night."

What a night it turned out to be – a night of miracles and magic, some said, and certainly a night that no one who was there would forget. Many who heard the story later dismissed as an exaggeration; but perhaps they had never seen a Jedi at work. Great piles of materials moved like flocks of flying creatures. Heavy stones and droids rose to the tops of the rapidly growing walls without the need for muscle and pulleys. There was no need to build scaffolding; men flew from perch to perch, yelling with fear or with delight. Then, closer to dawn, vortex after vortex of thick mortar spun high into the air and poured over the curves of the buildings domed roof like cream. Laborers scrambled faster than they had in their lives to spread and smooth it, and could still barely keep up. A man who lost his balance in the hurry of it all found himself floating gently to the ground, unharmed.

Inside the medicenter, no one could sleep; the sick and injured spent the night outdoors, jammed together with other onlookers. Those who were less mobile clogged the buildings openings, trying to get a glimpse. The very ill, Lupie among them, spent the night moaning for others to tell them what they saw.

Dax spent most of the night inside the pressurized container, trying to learn about the intricate connective tissue of the alien equipment. When she emerged at dawn, stiff and with burning eyes, there was pretty much a whole building where less than a day before, thered been a dusty patch of ground. People were crawling all over it, and crowding the spaces around it along with droids, machinery, and piles of building supplies. It was a marvel and a madhouse, all created by one man. But where was he?

She searched everywhere for the Jedi, all around the grounds and all through the crowds. She finally spotted him huddled on the ground near the new structures nearly completed entrance. He was on his knees, covered in dust, and coughing intermittently.

"Hey, Jedi!" she hurried toward him, not liking what she saw. When he raised his head, it was worse. His eyes were bloodshot and ringed with shadows, and under the dirt and grime he was paler than shed ever imagined even a light-skinned man could be.

"That's it," she said brusquely, kneeling down beside him. "That's enough."

The Jedi didn't argue. He just kept coughing.

Dax stood up and yelled for assistance. "Hey! Get a stretcher over here! On the double!"

It took a while to get the attention of the right people, to get the stretcher, and to maneuver the Jedi inside, away from the pressing crowds. Dax persisted doggedly, and finally found him a bed near Lupie and Popper, who were vastly curious.

"Leave him alone," she warned them fiercely, one finger raised like an angry parent's, her other hand resting on her sidearm. "He needs to sleep, an' if you pester him, even a little bit, I'll shoot you both. Understood?"

Both men nodded, completely intimidated.

Dax shut the door, strong-armed the nearest laborer into stand guard until she got back, and went to find Remy.

_Stupid Jedi, _she thought angrily. _What could be so important?_

Anakin didn't know how long he had hung there, suffering, when at last the cell door opened. He was facing away from it at the time, and had to wait for the slow, inexorable turn of his manacles to bring him face to face with... Dooku.

"Hello, Anakin."

Anakin dropped his eyes and didn't answer. He couldn't imagine what there might be to say.

Dooku paced slowly along by Anakin's side, remaining in view. "Did you finish the exercise?"

"What?" Anakin croaked.

"The exercise with the remote. I left you with specific instructions to complete the exercise. Did you?"

Anakin thought back to the training room on the _Serena_. It seemed a lifetime ago. He had no idea why, under the circumstances, Dooku was even talking about it.

"Yes," he managed.

"The entire sequence? Up to Level 10, with the blindfold?"

"Yes," Anakin said again. It didn't seem like a good idea to explain how he had completed it.

"Good. And then you decided to follow me here?"

"Uh..." Anakin tried desperately to remember the sequence of events before his capture. "Yes."

"Why?"

Anakin didn't know why. He could barely remember what had been going through his head. But even in his somewhat traumatized state, he understood that was a poor answer.

"I was curious," he said at last, mentally crossing his fingers for luck. "And bored," he added for good measure.

"And what do you think of that decision now?"

The walls kept going around and around. Anakin thought that if he had to stay there very much longer, he would go mad. In fact, he might already be off his head. The conversation with Dooku was making no sense.

"It's been ... interesting," he said, somewhat randomly.

"'Im glad you have found it so. Hopefully, you have also found it instructive." Dooku held up his hand. A familiar-looking cylinder rested on his open palm.

"My lightsaber!"

"It was careless of you to lose it. Don't let it happen again."

Anakin didn't trust himself to know the right thing to say, so he didn't. Dooku seemed unruffled by this, and continued with his slow pacing and his lecture.

"But your most egregious error was in allowing yourself to be discovered. Tell me, Anakin, how did you find me?"

"Um... the ship's tracking function."

"That tracks my ship. How did you find _me_?"

"I ... sensed you. I just knew where you were."

"Exactly." Dooku whirled to face Anakin with such a furious expression that Anakin flinched violently. For a second, the binders flared.

"How stupid can you be," Dooku shouted, "not to realize that it works both ways? I knew you were coming the moment your ship left the Serena! I could pinpoint your location every moment you were on the planet! And I would like to know what that utterly unseemly display of emotion was, up on the balcony!"

Caught. He was caught. Even the binders hadn't caught him so thoroughly. He had no place to run, no place to hide. Nothing to do but... lie.

Chin high, Anakin lied with all his might. "I finally figured out that you'd know I was there. Once I saw you, when I was up on the balcony, I was afraid of getting in trouble."

The strange thing was, Dooku seemed to believe him. For the first time, Anakin saw a ray of light.

"And well you should have been. It was I who pointed you out to the Geonosians, and made sure they brought you here."

"You?"

"You needed to be taught a lesson."

"Lesson learned."

"They are very unhappy that you killed two of their guards."

Anakins heart sank. Here came the real trouble.

"Fortunately," Dooku went on smoothly, "I have enough influence here to persuade them to let you go. I explained that you are my errant apprentice, and that the punishments I have in mind for you far exceed anything the Geonosians might intend."

_His apprentice? What?_

Dooku smiled a little and pointed an object at Anakin. Instantly the binders vanished, and Anakin crashed down onto the platform that had held him. Thankfully it had stopped turning.

"Of course," Dooku said casually, "the Geonosians are very fond of executions."

Anakin cupped his wrist tenderly. He could feel the broken bones through the skin. "What's worse than death?" he asked, scrambling painfully to his feet."

"Training." Dooku grasped Anakins shoulder and shoved him toward the door. "Come along, Anakin. It's time to go home."

_I'm Dookus apprentice? _Anakin wondered again, stumbling through the corridors with his teacher – my_ Master?_ – by his side. Hed been an apprentice before. He'd had Masters before, and he didn't care to repeat the experience. Masters had power over you. And _home_... well, he had a different idea about what that meant, too.

He _had_ learned a few things from the experience on Geonosis, but they weren't only the lessons that Dooku had wanted him to learn.

He had learned that Dooku's so-called political idealism included assassination of Republic Senators, and preparation for large-scale war against the Republic.

He had learned that all this time, he had feared the wrong thing. Dooku wasnt going to reject him; Dooku had plans for him, and wasnt about to let Anakin walk away, no matter how many times he referred to him as a 'guest.'

That was most likely going to be a problem, because Anakin reacted very badly to coercion. He had no intention of ever being indentured to anyone again.

He was leaving.

Just as soon as he figured out how.


	14. Chapter 13 Turnabout

**Chapter 13. Turnabout**

The first test of Anakin's new resolve came the moment he and Dooku emerged from the foundry structure into the Geonosian dawn. Dooku headed for his ship, while Anakin veered off in the opposite direction to find his.

"Anakin, this way. My shuttle can take two if I pilot it myself."

"But my ship..."

"Leave it! We will get you another, a more suitable one."

Funny, how the old ship that Anakin hadn't even bothered to name was suddenly the most important thing in the world. He wasn't about to give up the only thing that made him independent.

"No!"

Dooku stopped walking. "What?"

"It's my ship. I don't want to abandon it."

"Anakin, we don't have time for this..."

_Careful._ _Step carefully, _Anakin reminded himself. "But I built it!" he whined, with just the right touch of childish stubbornness.

Dooku's eyes flashed with impatience, which his next words belied. "I am only concerned about your injury, Anakin. Come with me in the shuttle. We can retrieve your ship later."

"Oh," Anakin said carelessly, "my wrist will be all right." Then, ingenuously, as if he'd just thought of it, he added, "You could ride with me. There's more room. You could send the shuttle on its own."

"Certainly not," Dooku snapped, just as Anakin had expected. He'd seen the same look of contempt on the Count's face when he'd first arrived in the old freighter.

"Well,"... Anakin started moving off toward the ridge..."I'll meet you on the _Serena,_ then."

Dooku lingered for a moment, as if making up his mind. Anakin kept walking.

"Don't dawdle," Dooku snapped. "Follow my lead."

Relieved, Anakin hurried toward his ship, but his sense of liberation was short-lived. Somewhere at the back of his awareness, Dooku was a persistent presence, silent and oppressive.

_Right. It works both ways. I sense him – he senses me. _For the first time, Anakin wondered if there was a way to shield his presence from Dooku's awareness. That was another thing to learn – if he ever got the chance. It seemed that, no matter who taught you, the price of knowledge was high.

Awkwardly nursing his wrist, Anakin had to scramble up the ridge that he had leaped down so lightly not very long before. But the sight of his battered freighter eased all of his aches. There it was ... a piece of home.

Gratefully climbing inside, Anakin felt genuine fondness for the old piece of junk. He really should have named it. The ship's powerful engines purred into life while Anakin quickly ran through his cross-checks. What was the name Lupie had suggested? _Desert Queen?_

Why not?

"I officially name you the _Desert Queen_," he said aloud to his ship, and suddenly, she truly belonged to him.

The communicator flashed into life, interrupting his private ceremony. It was Dooku.

_"These are the Serena's current coordinates," _the Count's disembodied voice said. "_Follow my trajectory exactly."_

"Suppose I have other plans?" Anakin muttered under his breath, but he tried to keep his feelings neutral. It wasn't easy. It was obvious that Dooku was keeping a tight rein on him, which really, REALLY infuriated him. What ever happened to "...we are both busy men..."?

Reluctantly but sensibly, Anakin entered the prescribed flight plan into the navicomputer. He didn't want the full force of Dooku's wrath turned against him. He would bide his time. Find an opening, an opportunity. Something would turn up. It always did.

He had two messages waiting, both from home. Replies to the cursory one he had sent, no doubt...

Maybe he was still a little shaky, but hearing Remy's familiar voice in the first message raised a lump in Anakin's throat. Outside the viewscreen were the rings of an alien planet; inside the ship, he was momentarily transported home.

... _The medical equipment you sent is here, but we've never seen anything like it. Not sure how to get it going, but won't stop trying. Your mother is all right – the same, but maybe there there's hope once we figure this thing out. The boys all look lost, and most of them are useless. I don't have the heart to kick their asses._

_You found a teacher? For what? What do you have to learn that you haven't already taught us? And more important, how long is that going to take?_

_Stay in touch. I mean it._

Anakin had to take a very deep breath when the message ended. For a long time he just sat, staring out at the stars, seeing only the upturned faces of the people who had seen him off on his journey. Lost. That's how a lot of them had looked. But then, he had been, too. That's why he had gone in the first place, because he was lost...

_And now look what I got myself into._

After a while he listened to the second message, which was only a couple of standard hours old. By the time he'd heard half of it, his inner landscape had changed violently again. By the end of it, he was furiously calculating a course for Tatooine.

Remy's voice again:

_Where the hell are you? I told you to stay in touch._

_Lupie and Popper got hurt bad in a Raider attack, but they were damn lucky, too ... turns out an old friend of yours is on planet looking for you, and found them in the desert. Saved their lives. Happens he's a Jedi, name of Kenobi. Says he's your old Master, and really wants to talk to you. He's been a huge help with getting the medical equipment set up – it's unbelievable what that guy can do. Makes me wonder why you never mentioned him. I won't put him in touch until you say it's OK._

_Oh, yeah... Kenobi's pretty cagey about who he's here with, but word is it's another old friend of yours, a lady Galactic Senator named Amidala. Seems she's visiting your Mom now, but I get the impression she really wants to see you. I'll get the lowdown from Owen later. What do you want me to do about these people? I'm telling them exactly nothing, but this Kenobi guy never lets up. Help me out here._

_Better yet, come home and deal with this yourself. I've got work to do. _

The night that Master Kenobi and Dax didn't return to the _Veritas_, Eirtaé slept fitfully, dreaming patchy dreams of wind and dust, from which she awoke coughing. Her first waking thought was for the Jedi, which shamed her. Padmé was her duty. Only Padmé.

Sleep gone, there was still a sliver of night to pass. Pulling on a silken robe that belonged anywhere but on Tatooine, Eirtaé padded through the corridors of the ship like a wraith. Finally, inevitably, she stopped at the door to Padmé's cabin, where she hovered, staring at the woman whose sleeping form she could barely make out in the gloom.

At the foot of Padmé's bed was a cot with another sleeper – Rhea, by the look of her. So that's where the girl had disappeared to. Lately, Rhea hardly spoke to Eirtaé unless she had to. She spent all her time with Padmé.

_What are we doing here, Padmé? _Eirtaé wondered. _How has it come to this?_

Twenty years Eirtaé and Padmé had known one another. Twenty years and more. They had been first thrown together as little girls in a big new school; natural rivals, but in the way of children, immediate friends. Padmé had been like all of the others at the Academy – bright, earnest, and idealistic. Any of them would have served well as Queen.

_Any of us..._

And yet, in her time, Padmé had been elected, and had become far more than a good Queen. She had shown greatness.

_Did it show back then? _Eirtaé wondered. _Did any of us know that Padmé would shine so? _She thought not. Padmé had grown into her strength in a way that left everyone talking about destiny. Even the historians described her as 'born to lead.' The marvels she had accomplished during her Regency on Naboo, the surprising influence she wielded in the vast Galactic Senate on thorny issues like the Military Creation Act...these were the hallmarks of a profoundly gifted politician: one who shapes events rather than reacting to them.

Was it possible that one could grow out of such great gifts? Was it possible that illness and fear could strip them away?

_Is it possible to let go of one's destiny?_

Padmé shifted in her sleep. At least she wasn't coughing any longer. That was a mercy. But she wasn't well, either. She was a shadow of the woman she had been. Since leaving Coruscant, Padmé never spoke about what was going on in the Senate, or about the duties she had left behind. She never once mentioned the Military Creation Act, to which defeat she had devoted nearly a year of her life. It was as if all the things that had defined her since her ascension to public life had been stripped away,

It broke Eirtaé's heart.

Why had Padmé insisted on coming to this desolate place? She could have been made safe on Naboo, or in a thousand other, more suitable places. Was it Skywalker? She hadn't mentioned him in years. He wasn't even on Tatooine, and yet Padmé still insisted on staying, at great cost to everyone. (Again, worry for the Jedi flashed through Eirtaé's thoughts. Again, she reluctantly pushed it away.) It was as if all of Padmé's fragile emotional energy was invested in this place - and perhaps in that young man, who seemed central to everyone's life here, even in his absence.

_What do you want from this place, Padmé? Why are we here?_

The girl on the cot stirred, woke.

"Eirtaé? Is it time to get up?"

"Not yet, young one," Eirtaé whispered. "I'm up early. Go back to sleep."

With the ease of the innocent, the girl slipped back into her dreams.

Eirtaé returned to her cabin to practice the five steps of quietude with which she faithfully began each day.

"How're you feelin'?"

Obi-Wan opened his eyes to a glare so bright, he couldn't make out who was speaking to him. Instinctively he raised a hand to shade his eyes, and was surprised how much effort it took.

"Hang on." Something took the glare away, a shade, perhaps.

"Dax." He turned his head to look around. That was also difficult. He seemed to be lying on a bed in a whitewashed room with sloping walls containing a row of rudimentary beds, all of them occupied. He looked up at Dax again.

"What was the question?"

"Uh-oh." A firm had grasped his wrist; practiced fingers took his pulse. "Well, Jedi. Seems yer human after all. For a while there, you had me wonderin'. You're actually not doing so well."

Obi-Wan stared at her, trying to understand what she was talking about, and then it all came back in a rush.

The building work. The medicenter. His indiscreet and utterly improper display of Force usage. He was glad that no Jedi Master had been there to see it. Ostentation and public display of any kind were abhorrent to a Jedi, and yet Obi-Wan – the least likely to stray in that direction – had made a spectacle of himself that he would never live down, even if he lived as long as Master Yoda. Any expectations that the job could have been accomplished quickly and discretely during the night had been dashed by the circus his efforts had unleashed.

In the glaring light of day, he had to wonder what he had been thinking.

He tried to sit up, and couldn't. Strange. He could hardly move. "Dax, what is wrong with me?"

She stared at him. "You're kiddin', right?"

"No, I'm not."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm guessin' you're tired."

"Tired?" he echoed in disbelief. Tired was unacceptable. Tired could be overcome. Obi-Wan again tried to sit up, and failed miserably.

"Not good," he muttered in frustration. "How can anybody be _this_ tired?"

"Oh, let's see," Dax said with exaggerated patience. "The rest of us are so dead on our feet that there're guys asleep outside on the road. Literally. They fell down where they were standin' and passed out from exhaustion. The rest are clutterin' up the medicenter. You, on the other hand – you worked like ten men, or maybe twenty, and you did it all night without a break. By the time I found you, you hardly even had a pulse. So yeah, I'd say you're probably tired. In fact, I'd say that if it wasn't for this Jedi stuff"...she waved her hand around, as if trying to encompass something that was too big for words... "we'd be buryin' you today."

"That can't be. It shouldn't be true."

"You ever done anythin' like that before? Like what you did last night?"

"Well, yes... here and there..."

"For that length of time?"

Obi-Wan thought about it. While Jedi trained hard for endurance, instances of intense Force usage tended to be brief in duration. He tried to remember a time when a fight or any other equally intense engagement had lasted longer than minutes. He couldn't. The Force was infinite and perfect, but a Jedi was not. It seemed that he had seriously overstepped his limits in the drive to get the work done. He had been irresponsible and careless, and now his primary mission was at risk...

"I can't just lie here, Dax. There is work... the Senator... "

Dax sighed. "OK, have it your way. You're free to go. Get outta here."

Obi-Wan scowled at her, suspecting a trick, and tried again to sit up, with no better luck.

"I can't," he admitted.

"Guess that leaves you with just one choice, Jedi. Stay here an' rest."

Obi-Wan looked around at the room full of sleeping people again, and imagined all too vividly what it would be like once they woke up and began to besiege him with questions and (worst of all) demands for further displays of his Jedi powers...

"I can't stay here, Dax," he said desperately. "If what you say is true, the only way I will recover is by myself, in private. I have to meditate, do you understand? I have to be completely alone and undisturbed."

Dax ran a hand over her short-cropped hair and yawned in spite of herself. For the first time, Obi-Wan noticed how exhausted she looked.

"I'm sorry, Dax. You look as if you're on your last legs, too."

"Yeah, I'll crash in a bit. I had a few things to do first." She yawned again. "Try to get some sleep, Jedi. I'll see what I can do about gettin' ya out of here and someplace private."

He had been reckless – reckless and careless. _Why?_ Anakin wondered. _Why did I let myself get trapped this way? _

The coordinates were set.

The hyperdrive calculations were complete.

The navicomputer was already adjusting the _Desert Queen's_ course for Tatooine when the comm. crackled to life.

_"Anakin! Pay attention! You're drifting off course!"_

Anakin swore the mighty oaths known only to spacers and rebels, but the oppressive sense that Dooku was nearby and aware subdued his temper with the cold touch of reason.

He had to stay calm. He mustn't let Dooku sense his intentions. What was the old Jedi Padawan's exercise? _To calm the emotions, breathe evenly, the same number of counts in and out. Keep it steady. Find your center..._

"Sorry," Anakin croaked into the comm. "Correcting."

Reluctantly, furiously, he _did_ change his course back to Dooku's coordinates. He didn't want to. He hated doing it. But his gut told him to - the same gut feeling that always knew what was around the next bend in a podrace, or what the Hutt's next move would be, or when a crippled freighter was safe to board. He changed his course because if he ran, Dooku would follow. He just _knew._

He was still breathing like a bellows, but at least his breaths were steady. (... _Five counts in ... Five counts out...) _White knuckles returned to the color of flesh, and he was able to think.

Whatever Dooku wanted from him, he wanted badly, no matter how indifferent he tried to seem. Referring to Anakin his 'apprentice' might have been just a ploy to get him away from the Geonosians, but to Anakin it had felt real. Startlingly real. Unpleasantly real_._

Sure, he could just jump away. He could be in hyperspace before Dooku could change course. That wasn't the problem. The problem was that Dooku knew where to look for him. Anakin could hide on Tatooine; he could hide indefinitely. But someone who was determined to find him would approach people who were close to him, manipulate them, wear them down, maybe even hurt them...

Anakin's breath went all ragged again, and he had to fight to steady it.

It seemed that the only way to escape was to play along with Dooku until he could find a plausible reason to leave. And besides, Threepio was still on the _Serena..._

And then it hit him: _Threepio ... _C-3PO, whom he had built as a child, had borne witness to everything he had ever done. He was a walking archive of information about Anakin and all the people he knew and loved. In the hands of Dooku and his vast droid labs, Threepio would be an open portal to every aspect of Anakin's life. There would be no place to hide; no way to protect his loved ones.

His gut response (however hated!) had been right. Of course he had to go back to the _Serena! _He couldn't leave Threepio behind for Dooku to take apart.

It just went to show, though. He had to stop being dazzled by Dooku and to have faith in his own instincts, however elementary. They had served him well all his life, and he needed to trust them, to trust in himself...

Feeling a little better in his own skin, Anakin spent the rest of the short journey back to the _Serena _thinking quite clearly. He even had the presence of mind to secure his wrist with a field splint and to dab some bacta on the cuts and gashes his captors had left.

His pulse remained steady; his emotions, contained.

_Sense that, Dooku! _he thought defiantly, with a little of his old bravado.

Immediately, Dooku's implacable presence flared in Anakin's awareness like a flame.

Chastened, Anakin went back to counting his breaths.

The Lars farm was so isolated that the starship _Veritas _was able to land on Cliegg's own property with no one around to see. Only the members of the Lars family were thrown into turmoil on that hot, still morning by the faraway rumble of galaxy-class engines coming to rest.

"She's here," Beru fussed, wringing her hands. "She's here."

"Settle down, girl!" Cliegg commanded. He was edgy enough without her nerves adding to his.

Only Shmi seemed calm. Cliegg had set her up in a comfortable chair (repulsorlift, no less – very fancy! Owen got it from the 'farmer's market,' and for once Cliegg didn't complain.) Beru had hastily brought a few other assorted chairs to set beside it for the visitors.

Owen had been keeping a lookout by the security screens for some time. Finally, the viewers showed a procession coming their way. Three of the figures wore long, hooded cloaks; three more looked like military men. Peeking over Owen's shoulder, Beru blanched. "There are so many of them ... do we have enough chairs?

"Relax." Owen squeezed her hand reassuringly. "I don't think the men are here to sit and chat. They look like guards."

"She has all those people with her," Beru whispered. "She must be very important."

Owen shrugged. "I guess so." He deactivated the shield, and sprinted up the stairs to the outer entrance to meet the party. Beru waited below, tight with anxiety, listening to Owen's greeting and the murmur of female voices. She wondered if the beautiful woman called Eirtaé was among them...

She was. Eirtaé led the party down the stairs with the quick, light step of familiarity, and greeted Beru warmly. "Thank you so much for your hospitality. Senator Amidala has truly been looking forward to this visit."

Beru's eyes slid to the stairs. Another woman was making her way down the stairs with the assistance of a younger girl. The woman had heavy dark hair (done up simply in a long, thick braid), dark eyes, and the palest skin Beru had ever seen. No one who lived under Tatooine's suns could be that pale. In her own way, the dark-haired woman was as beautiful as Eirtaé, but she looked drawn and tired. Beru wondered suddenly whether she had been ill; she had the same fragile quality about her as Shmi.

Eirtaé introduced them. "Cliegg Lars is Shmi's husband. And Beru is engaged to Anakin's brother Owen. Cliegg, Beru, this is Senator Amidala."

The Senator completely bewildered her hosts by grasping both of Cliegg's hands in hers as if they were long-lost relatives. "I am so happy to meet you," she said, sounding genuinely delighted. "And please ... call me Padmé." If that wasn't baffling enough, she looked around the ordinary farm atrium and said, "It's so beautiful here."

Cliegg snuck a surreptitious look the old homestead around as if he had missed seeing something. Eirtaé moved on with the introductions, saving tongue-tied Beru from having to stammer anything. "This is Owen Lars, Senator. He is Anakin's brother, and, I think, comrade in arms."

Even Owen looked a little pink around the edges when the Senator... Padmé... took his hands and greeted him warmly. Beru got her turn as well, but remained mute with shyness.

Before they moved on, Eirtaé drew the younger girl to the group. "This is Rhea, also Handmaiden to the Senator. It is her first visit to your planet."

The girl was as beautifully dressed and groomed as the others, but she looked shyer and a little lost – a kindred spirit. Beru warmed to her immediately. It helped her to find her tongue.

"Welcome, all of you. Shmi is waiting for you through here..."

As they crossed the atrium the Senator looked all around as if she were memorizing every tiny detail. Shmi sat waiting for them in a cool alcove on the other side of the atrium, past the shaded family table, The woman called Padmé stopped for a moment when she saw her, and made a quiet sound like, "Oh!" (Beru was standing right next to her, so she heard it) and then ran to Shmi's side, where she knelt on the floor by Shmi's chair.

Shmi's hand fluttered out and found the Senator's hair. "Padmé, child," she said thickly, stroking it gently. "Padmé."

"I'm so sorry, Shmi. I didn't know. I didn't know about any of it."

When Beru crept closer, she saw that the Senator's... _Padmé's_... pale cheeks were streaked with tears.

"Beats me," Cliegg muttered under his breath. "I don't get any of this."

Just ahead, the _Serena's_ huge landing bay swallowed up Dooku's golden sailship. Even as the _Desert Queen _followed it between the hatch bay doors into the gloom of the gigantic yacht's interior, part of Anakin's unruly mind (or was it his heart?) was still thinking about jumping away. When the hatch bay doors closed behind him, his mood was as murky as the dimly lit metal walls of the _Serena's_ underbelly.

_Soon,_ he promised himself, studying the exact details of the hatch door mechanism, the lighting, the landing bay's configuration, the number and type of droids lurking around the space...

Dooku was waiting for him on the platform when Anakin emerged from the _Desert Queen,_ cutting short his survey. He greeted Anakin silently, merely looking him up and down. Anakin didn't trust himself to say anything, so he didn't. Dooku turned toward the landing bay exit doors. Anakin followed. They walked in complete silence through silent, pristine corridorsuntil they reached the junction that led to the living quarters. Anakin automatically began to head in that direction.

"No, Anakin. Not yet. I know you are weary, but I have one more lesson for you before you rest." Dooku turned left, toward an unmarked door that Anakin had never entered.

_You've got to be kidding me,_ Anakin thought bitterly. The man was insane. What was the point of having an apprentice if you were just going to kill him?

The door opened at the wave of Dooku's hand, and Anakin found himself in a brightly lit medicenter, so large and well-equipped that it would have been the envy of any town on Tatooine. He had never seen the like. A mobile MedDroid approached them as soon as they entered.

"Greetings, Master. How may I be of assistance?"

Dooku pointed at a comfortable-looking couch in an alcove away from the lustrous equipment. "Lie down there, Anakin."

To the droid he said curtly, "Lights at thirty percent. Get me a seat beside the couch. Then go away."

"Of course, Master."

The lights dimmed. The droid retrieved a stool from somewhere in the back, floated it to the couch, and withdrew. Anakin sat gingerly on the edge of the couch, unwilling to lie down and feel completely exposed. Dooku didn't insist. He settled himself on the stool in front of Anakin.

"Let me see your wrist."

Reluctantly, Anakin stretched out the damaged arm. Dooku grasped hold of his elbow from underneath, so that Anakin's forearm rested on top of his. With his other hand, Dooku deftly removed the field splint and tossed it aside. Misshapen and bruised, Anakin's wrist had swollen to twice its normal size. He wanted to make a fist, but couldn't. His hand lay limply open, at Dooku's mercy.

"Now then, Anakin. Injuries are inevitable. Medical facilities like this one are rare. Fortunately, those with knowledge of the Force can use its life-giving nature to heal injuries in all living things. It can be used on behalf of another, and for self-healing. You have learned to tap into the power of the Force. You know a little about its active, creative nature. Now you must learn to use it to heal."

Dooku moved his free hand above Anakin's arm from hand to elbow without touching it. Anakin felt a tingling all along his arm that soon intensified into heat.

"The Force tells me exactly what is damaged and what needs to be done to heal it. But I want you to determine that for yourself. Close your eyes."

Anakin stared at Dooku.

"Close them."

Anakin obeyed.

"Now concentrate. Visualize your arm in the Force. What do you see?

"I'm not sure," Anakin said slowly. "It looks like something moving... flowing along my arm... inside of it... around it..."

"Your body's energy, yes," Dooku said, with a hint of impatience. "But what do you _see_?"

"An obstruction," Anakin said at last. "Sort of like a rock in a stream. The current flows around it..."

"Remove it."

"What?"

"Remove the obstruction so that the energy can flow smoothly. With your eyes _closed,"_ he added sternly, when Anakin opened them to stare at his arm.

There was a long silence while Anakin struggled with the task. The obstruction did seem to him to grow smaller at last.

"Come, come, Anakin. The Force has no limits. Put some conviction into it!"

Still wondering whether he was imagining the whole thing, Anakin visualized a floodgate opening and the Force pouring through his arm, pushing away any remaining obstructions.

"Good!" Dooku seemed quite satisfied. "Open your eyes."

Anakin looked at his arm. Aside from a tingly feeling, it looked quite the same. "It doesn't look any different."

"It is healing." Dooku got up to find another splint, a sturdier one this time. "Change the energy, and matter will follow."

"It would heal anyway," Anakin muttered under his breath.

Dooku returned with the bandage material. "The bone still needs to be set. Hold still." He grasped Anakin's wrist with both hands.

"Wait... WAIT!"

"Numb it, Anakin. Now."

"WHAT?"

"Use the Force!"

Not knowing what to do, Anakin imagined a flash flood of warm energy pouring over his arm.

With a quick motion, Dooku pulled and twisted. Anakin prepared to scream... and then didn't.

It hadn't hurt nearly as much as he thought it would.

_Huh._

With little wasted motion, as though he had done it thousand times before, Dooku splinted and secured the wrist.

"There you are. If your cuts are bothering you, I suggest you use the same Force-activation technique on them. Bacta and other basic supplies are in your suite. Other than that, you may not avail yourself of the medicenter. I want you to heal yourself." Dooku stood up. "You may retire now. I will review your progress tomorrow at first meal." He looked down at Anakin for a long moment. "We have a few things to discuss."

A moment later, he was gone.

Exhaustion crept over Anakin like a fog. It was all he could do to stumble back to the room he had left so long ago. (Had it been only a day? Or many days? He could barely remember.) When he passed the corridor that led to the hangar bay he thought again of running, but he was so tired he could barely think. _Not now._ He needed to rest first... to rest...

Threepio waited blankly just where Anakin had left him. Anakin switched him on in passing.

"Oh, Master Ani! Are you all right? Your wrist..."

"I'm fine, Threepio," Anakin mumbled. "I need to wash... can you get me some towels...?"

The many cuts on his arms and back stung viciously under the soapy hot water. He would have ignored them, but knowing that Dooku would inspect his work in the morning, he did his best to visualize them healing. When he finally did make it to bed, he felt as if he was falling down a deep dark well. _Falling..._

"Threepio?" he mumbled sleepily.

"Yes, Master Ani?"

"Do you remember Padmé?"

"Of course, Master Ani. My memory banks are one hundred percent functional."

"Tell me what you remember."

"Oh... dear... I'm afraid that I'm not much of a storyteller."

"Tell me. Exactly as things happened."

"Well, my first recorded memory of Miss Padmé was in your bedroom in the slave quarters where you made me...

When Anakin finally reached the bottom of that long, dark well of sleep, he wasn't alone. He was with the quiet, thoughtful, dark-eyed girl who had wanted to see his world, and who had trusted him to show it to her.

The chairs that Beru had so thoughtfully brought to Shmi's side went largely unused. Owen was right about the men that the Senator had brought with her; they were guards, and kept their distance. The only people really talking were Shmi and Padmé. Once Cliegg saw that all of Shmi's attention was focused on that Senator woman, he excused himself and went off to the garage. Not long after, Owen pulled Beru aside for a whisper and a kiss, and left the farm. Beru devoted herself to the younger Handmaiden, and did her best to entertain her. They soon drifted away from the alcove, and spent their time at the big family table, talking. Beru couldn't get enough of Rhea's descriptions of Palace life on Naboo.

Only Eirtaé remained with Padmé and Shmi, making a place for herself, as always, at the periphery – always an observer until she was needed. It was a role she had sought out, mastered, even relished; a perfect place for a contemplative soul. Normally, she could remain silent, straight-backed, and attentive for hours without feeling strain. But then, normally, she wasn't fighting the torpor brought on by the airless heat of the primitive underground farm dwelling, or the constant irritation of sand fleas. Perhaps it was because she hadn't slept well, or perhaps because of the shadows that lingered from her restless dreams, but for once, Eirtaé was having a difficult time performing her duty of quiet perfection.

Padmé didn't seem to need her at all. In fact, despite the slow, halting nature of her conversation with the impaired farmwoman, Padmé looked more animated than she had in a very long time. Skywalker's name came up often, of course. So did others that were unfamiliar to her. The women spoke of a time that Eirtaé knew only from the histories; of people and events that had never even been recorded as a footnote. During the terrible siege of Naboo by the Trade Federation, Eirtaé had been sequestered in the foothills of Stonefoot Mountain, studying with the monks of the Sevenfold Path. She had only entered Padmé's service at the end of her term as Queen. These stories were completely new to her...

Padmé laughed at something the farmwoman had said, startling Eirtaé into full attention. _She laughed! _At that precise moment, Eirtaé realized that Padmé never spoke about her time on Tatooine (to anyone, as far as Eirtaé knew). Whatever had transpired all there all those years ago (and judging from the conversation, it had been a great deal), Padmé had kept it all locked away inside.

Until now.

Eirtaé looked at Padmé. Really looked at her. Padmé's pale cheeks were brushed with faint color. Her eyes were alive. She was beginning to open up like a late flower on a dying vine; all the more important (and startling) for its unexpected emergence.

There was something about this place (Eirtaé looked discretely around, but remained puzzled) from which Padmé seemed to be drawing strength. She listened attentively to the conversation, but couldn't identify anything in particular that would help her to understand what it might be. They spoke of a Jedi – that was interesting. (Perhaps it was the same one who had been killed on Naboo during the Siege?) They spoke of slavery; Padmé asked endless questions about the slave's rebellion, which the farmwoman struggled to answer in her halting way. Eirtaé stifled a sneeze (the farms' air filters weren't very efficient) and wished she could scratch her ankle.

Out of the corner of her eye, Eirtaé noticed one of Captain Typho's guards signaling discretely. Gratefully, she rose from her chair, murmuring an excuse. Padmé barely noticed.

"What is it?" Eirtaé whispered to the guard, who awaited her at the entrance to the atrium.

"The Captain needs to speak with you now, in private. Can you get away? I'll take you."

Eirtaé glanced back at Padmé, who was absorbed in conversation. "It shouldn't be a problem."

Together the Handmaiden and the guard slipped out of the farmstead and made their way across the burning sand to the waiting starship. Captain Typho met them, looking worried.

"I didn't want to disturb the Senator, but Dax sent news. Kenobi is hurt. Dax's exact words were, "He's in a bad way."

"Hurt! How?" _The dreams... my dreams..._

"Dax didn't give me a lot of details. She says that she has arranged for him to be moved to a secure location while he heals..."

"What location? Who is moving him?"

"Again, I'm giving you Dax's words. She emphasized repeatedly that this is Kenobi's request. He wants to remain undisturbed. His exact location is apparently known only to someone named Remy."

"Remy, yes..." Danil and Vespé had mentioned him.

"A local," Typho said unhappily. "One of Skywalker's people. Apparently Kenobi has been having dealings with him."

A tight band of tension gripped Eirtaé's temples. She rubbed her forehead, trying to ease the pressure. "This is unacceptable! He can't just abandon Senator Amidala!" "In fact, I don't quite believe it. Obi-Wan Kenobi wouldn't do that." She looked up, glaring. "Where is Dax now?"

"She says that she is staying in Mos Eisley."

"This is ridiculous! Dax can't just set her own priorities. I'm going to find her and..."

"Eirtaé..."

She glared furiously at Typho for having interrupted her. "What?"

"There was another part of the message just for you. It's from Kenobi." he handed her a tiny communicator module, which she stared and blankly for a moment before placing it by her ear.

Obi-Wan's voice was so labored she had to concentrate with all her might to understand his words.

_"Eirtaé, I am so sorry to do this to you, but I trust your abilities and your judgment implicitly. I am placing you in full charge of the Senator's safety until I return. Captain Typho knows and agrees. Do what you feel you must; it will be the right thing. Remember always to make decisions in complete calm, but when the time comes to act, do so without hesitation. I will return as soon as I am able. That is a promise. If you deem it necessary to leave Tatooine before that time, do so. I will find you." _

There was a pause filled with painful-sounding coughing, and then the words, _"May the Force be with you." _The message ended.

Eirtaé clutched the tiny device in her fist in disbelief. "He sounds terribly ill."

Typho remained tactfully silent until she realized that he was awaiting orders.

"Master Kenobi says that I should take charge of this mission, and that you have agreed to this. Is that so?"

"It is," Typho said steadily, after only a fraction of a pause.

Eirtaé looked at him steadily. "Are you comfortable with this arrangement?"

"I am," Typho said stoutly. "My Lady..."

"I wouldn't go that far," Eirtaé stopped him dryly. "There has been no change in rank. Only in duty." She rubbed her forehead again. "Frankly, Captain, I don't like any of this."

"Nor do I," Typho said grimly. "But it seems we have no choice."

Eirtaé pulled herself together. "All right. Here is what we will do. I'm going back inside to talk to the Lars family about taking Padmé in for a few days." Typho raised his eyebrows, but didn't argue. "If the family agree, I'll need your guards here. You and I will take this ship to Mos Eisley - we can't leave it here as a marker. While I speak with Dax, I would like you to find out just who this Remy character is, and what he has done with Kenobi. Get Vespé's and Danil's help - they have a good feel for the locals.

Typho looked satisfied. "Just the assignment I was hoping for."

Eirtaé mustered a brave smile. "It's just us again. The Naboo team. We have protected her before, and we will again."

They exchanged a silent salute, a ceremonial gesture used only by the Queen's inner circle – a wordless oath as old as time: _... one and indivisible, duty until death..._

The Lars family agreed to allow Padmé and young Rhea to stay with them for a few days. The old farmer, Cliegg, looked very unhappy about the prospect, but when the woman Shmi insisted, he stopped protesting. Padmé looked unreasonably happy about the arrangement; Rhea, who would remain with her, less so.

It was only a short hop to the spaceport in Mos Eisley. Eirtaé used the time to ransack the _Veritas'_ computers for all data related, however tenuously, to Queen Amidala and the Siege of Naboo (with particular attention to the Queen's brief sojourn on Tatooine.) The history archive didn't contain much that she hadn't studied before, but she persisted, unable to shake the feeling that there was a connection between Padmé's undocumented, unsung experiences on the backward desert planet, and the Queen she later became. If only she could grasp the heart of it...

"We're here, My Lady," Typho announced over the com.

"Captain, if you call me that one more time, there's going to be trouble!"

"Understood, My Lady."

Stifling an exasperated sigh, Eirtaé let it go. It stood to reason that the good Captain felt more comfortable reporting to a superior, even one of his own making.

She didn't feel superior. She felt terribly alone.

She needed to find Obi-Wan Kenobi.


	15. Chapter 14 Awakenings

**Chapter 14. Awakenings**

It was silence that finally woke Obi-Wan – a silence so profound that for a fleeting moment, he thought he had been buried alive. His eyelids felt glued shut. He smelled old, still air, minerals, a faint tinge of moisture. With effort he managed to raise a hand, then move his whole arm up and around to the side, where he encountered ... rock.

He must be underground. A cave of some kind. No wonder he had thought of graves.

His eyes cracked open to light, faint and warm. It wasn't enough to penetrate the gloom high above, but it was light nonetheless. Turning toward it on the pillow (the linens smelled clean, that was something) he saw a small glow lamp on a low table. Beside it were a metal jug and cup, a few wrapped packets, and his lightsaber. Water, no doubt, and food... left by friends. He was thirsty, but far too weak to reach.

Returning his hand to his chest, he lay still and tried to remember how he had arrived there. He couldn't, which was highly unusual. Even at rest, Jedi maintained a certain level of awareness of their surroundings, but he had nothing. No sense memories. No images from a twilight consciousness. He remembered being in the medicenter, and now he was here...

_Dax._

She must have drugged him with something. That was unfortunate. The amount required to put an ordinary human to sleep would utterly incapacitate a Jedi if he didn't know it was coming ... heightened functioning potentized any substance he ingested ...

_... seems yer human after all..._

Human, yes, Dax. But also Jedi.

There was no way she could have known what a drug would do to him.

There was only one thing to do. Meditate. Heal. Time would take care of the rest. Hopefully, not too much time...

_Ingrate, _Dooku thought, pushing the shards of a training remote around the polished floor with the toe of his boot. The training room still resonated with faint traces of the activity that had gone on before. Anakin had been here, all right. He had worked hard. Whether he had completed all the levels before losing his temper with the device remained to be seen, but destroying the remote itself required a considerable level of skill. It had been designed to survive.

_Talented – very talented – but still an ingrate._

Then, instead of poking around the _Serena _when left alone, instead offerreting out her secrets (His secrets!) as anyone else would have done, the boy had unerringly focused on the most important matter: Dooku's whereabouts and activities.

_The important things are the ones we are engaged in, not what we leave behind._

Anakin had known this great truth instinctively. Even more remarkably, he had acted on his instinct.

_Bold and talented. The ideal combination._

Dooku hadn't seen his like since... well, since Qui-Gon. But even Qui-Gon hadn't been as volatile, as difficult to manage. Qui-Gon had been raised a Jedi, and had known the boundaries even when he tested them. This one, though – this wild young man from an uncultivated planet – was a challenge of a kind Dooku had never before faced. A challenge – and possibly the greatest opportunity of Dooku's life.

He was desperately in need of both the challenge and the opportunity. The chance to train his own apprentice in his own way, and with that apprentice, to defeat Sidious at last – that was something Dooku had longed for in the secret depths of his heart since very early in his association with the man before whom he was still made to kneel.

_Sith Lord. _Dooku turned the sibilant sound over in his mind. _Sith Lord. _The words still excited him. The Way of the Sith offered infinite possibilities for a man of talent. Without the cumbersome, arbitrary limits on knowledge and on action imposed by the Jedi, there was no end to the knowledge to be gained from the Force. Nothing stood in his way— nothing but the man who had brought him to the highest knowledge of all.

The man who could not see the merit in the broadening - the expansion - of the Sith Way.

The man for whom Dooku had exchanged Mastery among the Jedi for nothing more than a glorified apprenticeship.

The man who could not tolerate having an equal.

_Sith Lord. _When Sidious called him that, it was a mockery. Always, when Dooku looked beyond the shoulder of the man who demanded to be called Master, he saw the infinite waiting for him. And always when Dooku reached for that greater sphere in which absolute power could be applied to absolute justice, Darth Sidious blocked him.

If Dooku knew anything, it was that he was meant to be a Sith Lord in all the fullness of that designation, free and unencumbered. He also knew that to achieve that level of independence, Sidious must be overthrown. Sidious, of course, anticipated this. It was The Way. Therefore, Sidious made certain it would never happen. Knowing that he could not succeed alone, Dooku had never made the slightest attempt to usurp his Sith Master. Sidious mocked him for this, made a sport of deriding him while appearing to support and encourage Dooku's prowess.

But with help – with the assistance of even one talented, bold and fearless apprentice – Dooku had no doubt that he could finally return Sidious to the Force whence he came, releasing and dissipating his hoarded power like electrons in a smashed atom. When he became the last remaining Sith Master, everything would change. He would do away with the ancient, selfish Rule of Two, and create a new Order of powerful beings that would change the face of the Galaxy forever.

For this burning need, for this goal, Anakin was perfect. Beyond perfect.

_But ungrateful! _And unpredictable.

If only he could be tamed.

Dooku looked around the training room. The boy was about to bolt, of that he was certain. Either he had gotten what he wanted, or something had changed his mind about staying the course. Anakin was sleeping now, exhausted beyond endurance, but by Dooku's reckoning, as soon as young Skywalker woke, he would begin actively searching for a way to leave.

He had one night, and one night only, to discover a way to keep Anakin close. The traditional methods – the methods Sidious had used on that unthinking puppet Maul – were out of the question. Dooku needed a partner, not a tool.

With a wave of his hand, the training room's lights dimmed. Wearily, Dooku made his way to his sanctuary, his grand, hushed study, where he would review again, this time in more detail, the data taken from the boy's protocol droid. There had to be something he could use to keep Anakin's trust and interest.

There had to be.

Obi-Wan didn't know how long he lay in a twilight state – perhaps an afternoon, or was it days? All he knew was stillness. When he awoke, it was into the particular consciousness of meditation. When he lost consciousness, he slept. Sometimes he dreamed – cool, silvery dreams of wood and water, or thick, dense ones of matter and strife. _Jedi don't dream,_ he thought during one of those moments of lucidity, but then he slept again and the dreams returned.

_He sat by a campfire in a desert, featureless but for the dense canopy of stars overhead. He looked through the fire to see his Padawan, a young, ragged boy with his hair flopping into his eyes, twirling a small object in one hand._

"_I thought I cut that hair," Obi-Wan said. "And where is your braid?"_

"_I make things," the boy Anakin said. "See?" He held up the object. It was a homemade slingshot. Obi-Wan wondered where he had gotten the wood. "I made this. I cut off my braid with it."_

"_I don't see how," Obi-Wan said reasonably. "It doesn't have a blade."_

"_I don't need a blade," the boy said, picking a lump of charcoal out of the fire. "Just because you can't do things, doesn't mean that I can't." _

_(Where did the wood come from? Obi-Wan wondered again.) _

_The boy Anakin inserted the lump into his homemade weapon and shot Obi-Wan straight on, through the flames of the fire..._

This time when Obi-wan woke up, he was fully awake. His chest ached where the dream projectile had struck him. Pulling himself to a sitting position, he rubbed the ribs over his heart and realized that he felt stronger. Much stronger.

He was also ravenous.

He swung his legs over the side of the low bed without ill effect, and reached for the metal jug. It was cool to the touch. He drank long and deeply to quench his thirst, but before touching the food packets, decided to test his strength.

Standing worked (with a little effort since the bed was quite low to the floor). So did walking. Carefully, Obi-Wan circled the chamber a few times until the trembling in his legs went away, and then tried some gentle stretches. So far, good.

Retrieving the glowlamp from the bedside, he explored the further recesses of the chamber until he found two doors. One led to a basic but serviceable refresher; the other was locked. Faintly amused, Obi-Wan left the door to its illusion that it was a barrier and returned to the food packets, selecting sparingly from the local dried meats, hard bread and preserved fruit.

Anakin was still on his mind, behind his eyelids and somewhere, tightly, in his chest. The odd dream that had awoken him was still as clear as a new memory. The food in his hands evoked old memories of having tried to teach the boy moderation, even when he was very hungry. Anakin had always attacked his food as if it was the last he would see for a long time.

"_Slow down, Anakin. Eat only what you need."_

_His mouth full, the boy only slanted a suspicious glance at him, his fists already closed around the next morsels he would stuff into his mouth._

"_Trust me. You will always have food when you need it." _

_Anakin swallowed and shoved another bite into his mouth, his eyes never leaving Obi-Wan's face._

"_All right, if you don't trust me, trust the Force. You won't go hungry. A Jedi can always find a way. I will teach you how to survive when food is scarce."_

_When Anakin had gulped down the next mouthful, he said, "If that's true, why don't you teach it to all the people in the Galaxy who are hungry?"_

Obi-Wan looked down at the food in his hand. He didn't have any better an answer now than he had then. His appetite gone, he carefully re-wrapped the packets.

_Well, then. Let's see where we are._

Carrying the glowlamp, he returned to the locked door and, with a wave of his hand, relieved it of its duty. It swung open into a rock-walled corridor that had its own lighting source. Obi-Wan returned the glowlamp to the bedside, pulled the blankets neatly over the pallet, and assured himself that his lightsaber was fully functional. Rolling his shoulders and neck once or twice to make sure he was limber, and taking a few deep breaths to ensure that he was centered, Obi-Wan went exploring.

"Everything?" Vespé scratched the back of her neck thoughtfully. She was really getting tired of sand fleas. "What do you mean by _everything_?"

Captain Typho rested his forearms on the sticky table. In rough local clothing and rakish eye patch, he blended in well with the rest of the clientele in the cantina. Vespé thought that, despite his regulation haircut, he _looked _like a pirate.

"We need to know what Kenobi has been up to since we've been on the planet – especially everyone he's talked to. Eirtaé thinks he was doing more than protecting Senator Amidala. She thinks that he had another mission, something else he was working on. The real story is going to be in the details, no matter how small. So – learn everything you can."

"We made it easy for him," Danil said curtly. "Because we're good at our jobs, and because he knew that we would do whatever it takes, the Jedi could go skulking off to do whatever. I never thought we needed him in the first place."

"I understand how you feel, son." (Having grown up at the palace and been a mascot for the Queen's security forces as an infant, Danil was often indulged by the older officers. But young though he was, he had earned his rank; he was smart, tough, and tenacious.) "We'll get mad about it later. Right now, we need to find Kenobi, or at least to figure out whether any of his activities represent a danger to the Senator."

"You're trying to decide whether we should get her away from here."

"Yes."

Danil made an impatient gesture. "I say we just leave! It's better to be safe. There is a lot of shady activity on this planet."

"I agree with you, but unfortunately, the Senator wants to stay. If we're going to make a case for leaving, we need evidence of danger."

Danil leaned forward, mirroring his Captain's posture. "All right. How about this: for a while now, a couple of Core types, probably military, have been nosing around the Farmer's Market and a lot of local establishments. They don't ask a lot of questions, but everybody thinks they're looking for something in particular – or someone. They're cagey, though. They keep to themselves, mostly."

"They arrived before we did?"

"Yes. That's the strange thing. They've been here too long for a quick reconnaissance trip. They seem to be waiting for something... or someone."

"Did Kenobi know about them?"

Danil frowned. "I told him. Of course I told him. He didn't react one way or another."

Typho looked down at his hands, thinking. "Might not have anything to do with the Senator, but let's not take any chances. Danil, see if you can find out what they're up to. Vespé... "

"I'm way ahead of you, Captain. I'll go see what the boys in the medicenter know about secret hiding places for wounded Jedi."

"Try not to give the young one a heart attack," Danil said sarcastically.

"I'll be gentle," Vespé said, grinning at her companion's scowl.

It isn't every day that you wake up to see the woman of your dreams leaning over you.

It had happened to Lupie exactly never. But today must have been his day of days, because she was right there, sitting on the edge of his bed.

"Hello," she said.

Her long, dark hair was caught together at the nape of her neck and flowed down one shoulder. In the dim indoor light, the pale skin of her face and throat gleamed above the curved neck of her tunic. The smile in her eyes was enough to make his pulse race. She smelled sublime, exotic, like the perfumes that Remy sometimes sold at the farmer's market.

He knew she was real because she touched his wrist.

"It's you," he said, transported.

"I thought I should check up on you. You had us worried back there."

Lupie had no idea what she was talking about, but he didn't care. "Tell me," he begged, just to keep her there, talking to him. "Tell me about when you were worried about me."

"You don't remember?"

He shook his head.

"Did anyone tell you what happened to you?"

"Sort of. A little. Raiders got us. But I want to hear the story from you."

"A bedtime story?" she teased.

"A true story." He looked into her dark eyes. "Tell me a story about you and... me."

The woman of Lupie's dreams smiled at him. His heart thudded so hard that his chest wound hurt.

"Fair is fair," she said. "If I tell you a true story, you have to tell me one, too."

"Sure!" Lupie didn't know or care what story he could tell her. For now, he just wanted to hear her voice.

"All right," she began, with an impish grin. "Once upon a time... well, a few days ago out in the desert to the west, anyway...a Jedi Knight named Obi-Wan Kenobi happened to be searching for certain kinds of mineral formations when he spotted movement on a ridge up ahead... "

The night had been long, and Dooku was more tired than he cared to admit. Data and images taken from the memory banks of the protocol droid with the designation C-3PO flashed by his trained eyes at dizzying speed, but he couldn't narrow his search parameters until he knew what he was looking for, so was forced to endure the flood information. He had skimmed portions of the material when he first had received it, speeding through the early images of young Anakin in the slave's hovel (lingering a little, perhaps, when Qui-Gon's face appeared). The droid hadn't been switched on much during those early times. Except for the glimpses of Qui-Gon's secret visit to the desert planet, there wasn't anything of interest. Dooku quickly had moved on to study the later and better-documented periods of Anakin's life, observing the slave boy's growth to leadership, studying the way he thought, and documenting his associates.

Qui-Gon had taken the boy with him when he left Tatooine – to Coruscant, and to the Jedi. Unfortunately, the droid C-3PO had been left behind, so the only data from that time period revealed more than anyone would want to know about the excruciatingly dull life on a moisture farm. Later, when Anakin returned to his home planet, the data from the droid increased exponentially, but nothing seemed to provide an answer to Dooku's pressing question: what had Anakin seen or heard on Geonosis that made him want to leave? Dooku didn't believe for a moment that the short session of misery in the Geonosian prison cell was the cause. According to the information stored in the droid, he had endured much, much worse during the gangster wars.

He paused the datastream for a moment to rub his eyes. As much as he hated to, he would have to go back to the beginning. (He chose not to dwell on the possibility that his reluctance had as much to do with re-visiting Qui-Gon's face and voice as with fatigue.)

The holotransmitter flashed, saving him from one kind of misery by plunging him into another. It seemed that Darth Sidious was ready to receive his report from Geonosis.

Blast Anakin and his clumsy meddling! What if Sidious had spoken to the Geonosians first, and they mentioned something about Dooku's apprentice? Composing himself, preparing for the worst, Dooku enabled the receiver. His Master's holographic form filled the desk before him.

"Greetings, Darth Tyrannus. How do our projects fare?"

"My Lord, the talks were successful, and the Death Star plans have been completed. They plans remain securely hidden on Geonosis." Dooku continued smoothly with a concise, positive report, bringing up all the important points but wasting time on nothing.

"What about Gunray's conditions for signing the treaty? What about the Senator from Naboo?"

"I have persuaded Gunray to sign the treaty on the strength of my word. The coalition is complete."

"You have done well, my apprentice," the Dark Lord intoned when he had finished. It might have been Dooku's imagination, but he seemed to drag out the word 'apprentice' even more than usual. Dooku reacted to neither the praise nor the intonation.

"In the meantime," Darth Sidious continued, "I have decided that the plans will be safer here on Coruscant. I want you to bring them to me."

"Of course, My Lord." Dooku fought down a spike of anxiety. _Now what?_ "I will retrieve them immediately, and bring them to you when I have finished organizing the Outer Rim campaign."

"Leave that," Sidious growled. "You must return to Coruscant right away."

No explanation. Just an order. Something was up, and Dooku wasn't in the loop. It was getting harder to keep his emotions at bay. Leaving the Outer Rim now meant interrupting Anakin's training and postponing his personal plans. Was that what Sidious wished? Did he have any inkling about Dooku's secret apprentice?

Dooku forced himself to remain calm. Sidious couldn't know about Anakin. Even a Sith could not read minds.

"As you wish, Lord Sidious. I shall arrive on Coruscant in two days, three at the most, with the plans in hand."

"I will expect you in two." Without further comment, the Dark Lord ended the transmission, leaving Dooku shaken and his mind racing.

It seemed that Anakin would get his wish. He would have to cut the boy loose for now, at this very critical juncture. What could he do to ensure that Anakin would return to him in the future?

Moodily, Dooku re-started the data stream taken from the boy's droid, and stoically sat through the disconnected images of Qui-Gon and his party. Perhaps because this time he took special care to guard his emotions when viewing the images in which Qui-Gon appeared, or perhaps Sidious' mention of Gunray's feud with the former Queen of the Naboo was fresh in his mind, but for the first time, Dooku noticed the face of the young girl who accompanied the Jedi. On first viewing, he had dismissed her as a local. But that face...

He looked more closely.

Then he froze and enhanced the image of her face. Could it be...? A few more deft movements placed a current image of Senator Amidala beside that of the girl.

It was she! There was no doubt. Qui-Gon had hidden her so well on Tatooine that not even the history archives reflected the truth. So of course, _Anakin knew Amidala_ – not merely as the distant Queen who had rewarded him for his exploits on Naboo, but intimately, personally, as a childhood friend.

And on Geonosis, he had overheard Dooku promising her death.

Dooku leaped to his feet and began pacing his study, all equanimity lost, all exhaustion gone in a flare of desperate energy. How could he repair the damage? How could he keep Anakin's trust? For a long time he paced and thought without finding an answer. When at last he sank down into his chair again, he called up in the history archives the events on Naboo at the time of Amidala's victory over the Trade Federation.

The time of Qui-Gon's death.

It was an act of desperation. Dooku's bitterness toward the Jedi for having refused him consent to leave his mission on Hagyia Prime to attend Qui-Gon's funeral was boundless. The whole Council had attended, and yet he had been kept at a distance. What right had they to keep him from sharing first hand Qui-Gon's final ascent into the Force?

The day Dooku returned from that mission was the day he finally left the Jedi Order. From that time to this, he had not viewed the archival records of the funeral, and certainly had no interest in the holos of the celebration that followed...

He skipped the funeral holo. He still couldn't watch that. But he took a breath and sat through the images of the celebration on Naboo. After cringed through a few noisy musical extravaganzas and self-congratulatory speeches he muted the sound and focused only on finding young Anakin in the melee.

There he was – already dressed as a Jedi Padawan, standing beside his new Master, Obi-Wan Kenobi. Dooku pressed his lips together tightly and shifted his attention to the young Queen. More speeches, more waving, more insufferable acrobatics, and ... _there!.._. she turned her head, she smiled... _she smiled straight at Anakin._ The connection between them was clear.

He stopped. Peered more closely. Slammed his fist on the arm of his chair in rage.

Behind the Queen of the Naboo, dressed in resplendent green robes that reflected his new role as Supreme Chancellor, stood Palpatine. He also was looking at Anakin.

Rage gave way to despair. Dooku slumped in his chair, suddenly feeling his age.

Palpatine, in his guise as Dooku's friend, had never told him that he had attended Qui-Gon's funeral. All those conversations – all the times when Palpatine had commiserated with Dooku's grief and rage at having been excluded – not once had he admitted to having been there! But the evidence was right in front of him. Palpatine had been on Naboo for Qui-Gon's funeral just as Anakin had, and there wasn't the slightest possibility that the Sith Master was not fully aware of the boy and of his great potential.

Far into that endless night, Count Dooku of Serenno, former Jedi Master, Lord of the Sith and one of the most powerful beings in the Galaxy, sat huddled in his chair with his face buried in his hands.

As soon as he entered the winding corridor of rough-hewn rock braced at intervals with durasteel, Obi-Wan sensed that the network of caverns was vast, and that he was not alone. Somewhere far ahead were other people, quietly going about their business. Remembering the locked door to his secluded room, Obi-Wan realized that its purpose might have been as much to assure his privacy as to keep him from exploring, and moved cautiously. But move he did, because there was something in that place that called to him, something that aroused his curiosity. No, it was more than that. Something whispered to him through the Force. Back in his chamber, the air had been bone dry. Here it was moist, with the promise of more to come.

Water, the basis of all life, had its own distinctive signature in the Force. Deep beneath the arid desert, on a planet where no hidden deposits of water had ever been found by innumerable geological surveys, the indications were unmistakable. Soon after he sensed the presence of water he smelled it, then heard it, and finally, moving like a shadow, he arrived in the chamber where water sluiced down the rock walls into the great, deep pool. In the faint light provided by just a few glowlamps high above, the walls were greenish. The water in pool was nearly black. It must be deep.

_Water. Of this volume. Of this depth. On Tatooine._ Obi-Wan closed his eyes to better consult the Force. This was not a natural phenomenon. This was man made. By some method he could neither reason out nor intuit water molecules were being drawn together in astounding quantities and successfully collected. The flow down the walls was continual.

Obi-Wan sank down on one knee by the pool, staring into its depths. The water's surface was still as glass, but he could barely make out his reflection in it – only a shadow where the light came from behind. The pool was a marvel. Whatever technology had created it represented an evolutionary leap forward for the desert planet, and indeed, for any place in the Galaxy that struggled to sustain life.

This was not the work of mere pirates and black marketers. This was a visionary step into a new future – the engine of a massive change in the planet's history and destiny. And who on Tatooine had the genius to create something like this? Who, in his young life, already had a history of doing what others said could not be done?

"_Just because you can't do something, doesn't mean that I can't."_

There was movement at the margins of his awareness. People were coming. Two of them. They were still a fair distance away. Obi-Wan remained absorbed in the phenomenon of the pool, trailing one hand in the surprisingly cool water while the other rested open on the upraised knee. On impulse, he scooped a handful of water to taste. It was pure and fresh. He drank another handful, and another. The people were very close now. He could hear voices. Obi Wan wiped his hand on his tunic and remained where he was, waiting for them. When he closed his eyes, he still saw the pool. The image burned behind his eyes, searing into his consciousness.

The Briggs brothers found him that way, kneeling by their secret pool with his eyes closed and beads of water glinting in his beard.

"Hey!" they shouted in shock and surprise and ran to him, pulling out their blasters. "Who in the seven hells are you?"

Obi-Wan opened his eyes and rose softly to his feet, turning to face the two outraged young men with the ever so slightly shaking blasters. "Remy brought me here," he said quietly. "You have nothing to fear."

The brothers exchanged puzzled glances. They were the ones holding the blasters, weren't they? "We'll see about that," the older Briggs brother said rather more aggressively than was called for. "He's on his way now."

Obi-Wan bowed to them, baffling the young men even more. "In that case, perhaps you won't mind if I wait for him here."

It was a statement, not a request. Obi-Wan turned back to the pool, slipped gracefully into a cross-legged posture, and closed his eyes.

When his captors shook his shoulder, and even poked him with the muzzles of their blasters to try to get some answers out of him, the stranger didn't respond at all. It was as if he was sound asleep.

Not knowing what else to do, the Briggs brothers sat down on the damp cave floor beside the strange bearded man to wait for Remy. Even in the cave where the water dripped all the time, the man's silence was like a deep blanket covering them. The whole time they waited, neither brother said a word.

"Wake up, Anakin. We need to talk."

Anakin's eyes flew open. He struggled back to consciousness, trying to focus. Dooku was standing at the end of his bed as he did every morning when there was training at hand. Unusually, the Count's pallid cheeks were unshaven, and his eyes burned with exhaustion. He looked as if he hadn't slept at all.

Equal parts frustrated and cautious (he had planned to escape the moment he woke, but clearly he had overslept), Anakin sat up quickly, bracing himself for whatever was about to happen.

When Dooku sat down on the end of the bed. Anakin didn't know how to react. He slid a quick glance over at Threepio. Sure enough, the droid had been switched off again. Anakin was willing to bet that, for all the time he and Threepio had spent on the Serena, there wasn't a single visual record of Dooku in the droid's memory banks.

"Talk about what?"

"About what happens next, of course. Before you disappear, I would like to make a few things clear."

Anakin clenched his jaw to keep it from falling open. How had Dooku known that he planning to leave? If mind reading was possible, he _definitely_ wanted to learn that.

"You overheard something on Geonosis that disturbed you, didn't you, Anakin? A conversation about Senator Amidala."

Anakin felt himself redden. Before he could stammer out any kind of a response, Dooku held up a hand to silence him.

"It is no secret that Nute Gunray wants Amidala of Naboo dead. He has hated her since her victory in his attempted blockade of Naboo ten years ago. It was your victory too, wasn't it, Anakin? History tells us that you played a decisive role in the battle. In any case, Gunray made it a condition of our business arrangement that she be assassinated. I agreed because she is nothing to me, while the business venture is one to which I have devoted my entire life for a number of years."

Anakin made a violent movement. Again Dooku held up a calming hand, stopping any sound from coming out of his mouth. Full of hot bile, Anakin could only glare at him.

"But I know that Padmé Amidala is important to _you_," Dooku went on seriously, "and for that reason, and that reason alone, I promise you that I will not allow a hand to be raised against her. "

"How can you make sure of something like that?" Anakin croaked.

"I can. Believe me."

A silence went by.

"Why?" Anakin managed at last to ask.

"Amidala is nothing to me, Anakin, but I value you highly, and your peace of mind is very important for your further progress. I had my doubts about you when you first showed up here. But you have shown me that you are worthy of every moment I have spent training you. I believe you capable of achievement without limit in what is commonly known as the 'Jedi Arts.' Qui-Gon Jinn was right. You are an extraordinary talent."

"Um... " Anakin's jaw clenched again. All he could get out was a mumble that sounded like "mrph?"

Dooku smiled. "How long have you been here, Anakin? A week? Ten days at most?"

"Um hmm."

"Would you like to know what you have achieved in that time?

Anakin barely managed a nod. The unexpected positive feedback was making him so nervous he seriously considered making a break for it.

"Right now, I would pit you against any and all Jedi Padawans of about fourteen or fifteen years of age, and enjoy watching you wipe the floor with every one of them."

"Fifteen year olds!" Anakin sputtered, instantly outraged.

Dooku threw his head back and laughed. "We are speaking exclusively about the skills you came here to learn only a few days ago, Anakin. Not life skills. The Padawans you could trounce at the moment would have been studying those same skills their entire lives. I consider that quite an achievement on your part in such a short time."

Forgetting himself for the moment, Anakin leaned forward eagerly. He couldn't help it. "So how soon could I to get to Knight level?"

Dooku smiled. There was a particular glitter in his eyes. "I thought you were bent on leaving?"

"I... I am." Anakin came back to reality. Padmé and Obi-Wan were on Tatooine, and he had to get there... "It's not that I'm not grateful to you – I am. Truly. But I have to leave now. I have no choice."

Dooku nodded. "I understand. As I said at our first meeting, we are both busy men." He rose from the bed, never taking his eyes off Anakin. "Go if you must. But because I hold you in such high esteem, I will give you one last gift. A final training session, if you will."

Anakin untangled his legs from the blankets and stood also. "I appreciate it, really, but I don't have time..."

"Oh, but you do." Dooku leaned forward. "The one thing those fifteen year old Jedi Padawans have over you is experience in combat. So here is my offer: you are free to go, _provided you make it off the ship._ There are a great many dangerous weapons aboard the _Serena._ In a quarter of a standard hour, many of them –- not all, but a good number -will have been programmed to kill you."

"_What?"_

"You have your wits, your training, your lightsaber and your motivation to live and to return home as your weapons. Use them wisely."

"What if I don't make it?" Anakin could feel fear rising up to choke him. He fought it.

Dooku shook his head. "This isn't a practice scenario. This is real."

"Well... what if I succeed?"

"Then the best of luck to you. And when you return to me in the future for further training - and you will thirst for it, I assure you, should you survive - it will be as the equivalent of a newly fledged Knight."

"What about all the training in between?" Anakin sputtered.

"This will be a substantial part of it." Dooku turned away and began to walk toward the cabin's door. "I suggest you learn fast." At the door he paused for a moment and looked back with an unreadable expression. "May the Force be with you, Anakin. I sincerely hope to work with you again. There are no limits to depth of knowledge to be gained from the study of the Force. Do you understand me? _No limits._"

The door slid shut behind him.

Anakin stood in shock for about fifteen seconds, and then flung on his clothes, grabbed his lightsaber in a hand that was already sweating, and switched on Threepio.

"Come on, buddy. We have to get out of here, and fast. Go! Move!" He shoved the droid out the cabin door and practically dragged him down the corridor in the direction of the landing bay where he'd left the _Desert Queen_ - if she was even there any longer. He made no assumptions about anything, and he wouldn't put anything past Dooku.

"I don't understand, Master Ani," the droid said anxiously, shuffling as fast as he could. What has happened? There are so many discontinuities in my data... for some reason I keep shutting down."

"This is war, Threepio. Us versus them. You remember what that's like, right?"

"I do indeed, Master Ani. _Oh, dear, oh dear, oh dear."_


	16. Chapter 15 Breakout

**Chapter 15. Breakout**

A quarter of a standard hour is actually a quite long time if you're running for your life. On his own, Anakin could easily have made it to the landing bay with time to spare, but protocol droids weren't designed for speed. Threepio tried to hurry, he really did, but they hadn't gotten very far before Anakin realized that there was no hope of escaping without a fight. It was time for Plan B. He just didn't know what Plan B was.

_('Leave the Droid!' Dooku whispered to himself, watching.)_

There weren't a lot of hiding places on the _Serena; _that was for sure. Every corridor and probably every cabin were under surveillance by security monitors. Unfortunately, while he could be seen everywhere, there were a million nooks and crannies that he couldn't anticipate. He didn't even know what kind of weaponry Dooku had on board. The more Anakin's mind raced through the possibilities, the more the whole thing seemed like a death trap.

But that didn't make sense. If Dooku wanted him dead, why do it this way? Why give him a head start? Why call it 'training?'

_('Move, Anakin! Run!')_

"C'mon, Threepio. Hurry!"

"I am trying, Master Ani. Curse my useless legs!"

"They're not useless, Buddy. They're just not designed for running. Keep going as fast as you can."

_('That is a mistake.')_

A sense of ... something... up ahead brought Anakin to a sudden stop. The back of his neck prickled. Threepio trundled up behind him.

"Wha..."

"Shhh! There's a corridor up ahead that crosses this one," Anakin whispered. "I'll check it out. You keep moving toward the landing bay no matter what happens, got it?"

Before the droid could stammer out a reply, Anakin dashed toward the intersection of the corridors. The _Serena_ was as eerily silent as always. He couldn't even be sure he _had_ sensed anything. Hugging a wall, Anakin searched for something to toss into the corridor as a lure, but on the shiny, buttoned-down ship there wasn't so much as a loose bolt. Finally he activated his lightsaber. Its hum was startlingly loud in the silence, but here was no answering noise from any quarter.

Cautiously he waved the tip of the weapon into the space ahead.

The intersection exploded with blaster fire.

_Sh'spit! _He knew it! The quarter-hour had not yet passed. Dooku was cheating. He felt a momentary surge of panic. The odds against him were so enormous it hurt to think about it. He'd faced colossal challenges before, but never alone like this. Whatever he'd done in the past, he'd always been backed up by friends.

Threepio shuffled past him, heading straight into the blast zone, ending Anakin's brief moment of rumination. With one leap he was beside the droid in the middle of the blast zone, his weapon whirling almost of its own accord. "Hey! I know I said 'no matter what,' but you've got to watch where you're going... "

Shielding the droid while it hurried across, Anakin learned very quickly how to deflect multiple blaster fire with his lightsaber. If he hadn't been completely consumed by the challenge, he would have been impressed by his weapon's capabilities. The source of the enemy fire was a row of four slender battle droids, firing in unison. As soon as Anakin trusted the power of his weapon, he charged straight toward them, deflecting the oncoming blaster fire with ease, and decapitated them like a string of dolls. By the time they clattered to the floor and silence fell once again, he had checked all four corridors and caught up to Threepio on the other side of the crossing.

That was easy; too easy. Four droids, firing in unison from only one direction... Anakin remembered the ten levels of the training remote exercise and got a very bad sinking feeling in his stomach. If that was Level One, he didn't want to think about, say, Level 9, especially with Threepio slowing him down. He didn't have time for this.

_('Leave the Droid,' Dooku whispered again.'_ _Leave the droid!')_

"I wish I knew what kinds of weapons the _Serena_ is carrying," Anakin muttered, trotting protectively next to Threepio rather than running ahead, stretching his awareness for any hint of danger, his lightsaber out and humming in readiness. "How many different types of battle droids can there be?"

"Quite a few, I'm afraid, Master Ani," Threepio remarked as if the question had been directed at him. "I saw many different droids in the maintenance bay where I was taken for cleaning."

"Huh." Anakin hadn't asked Threepio anything about his adventures in the parts of the _Serena_ Anakin had never explored. He'd been too focused on his training. BIG mistake.

"Can you identify any of them?"

"Some, but I am afraid not all. There were quite a few models that are not in my database."

"Great." Unknown droid models. New designs, no doubt. Killers all – of that Anakin was certain.

This was looking worse and worse.

_('Foolish boy,' Dooku thought with what he imagined was stony indifference._ '_Do you think that I would have allowed the droid to see anything of significance?') _

This time there was no advance warning. The corridor ahead vanished in an explosion so painful that Anakin thought he had permanently lost his hearing. _Stun grenade with a smoke blind. Can't see anything... _Grimly, he fought down panic while reaching around in the fog for Threepio. When he found the droid's shoulder, he grasped it and pushed.

"Go! Keep going!"

His eyes burned so badly from the chemical smoke that he had to close them. To his surprise, his sense of direction was better with eyes closed than while he was fighting to see. When he stretched out with his senses in all directions, the ship's layout shimmered in his mind like a three dimensional map. Gaining courage, he picked up his pace, pushing the struggling protocol droid ahead of him. They were heading in the right direction for the landing bay, but it was many levels below their current location. Anakin steered Threepio toward the nearest Repulsorlift.

_('Why must you be so predictable?' Dooku sighed darkly.) _

The lift bay was deserted. Cautiously, Anakin activated the call panel and waited with his droid by his side for the doors to open, just like on any ordinary day. It was a strange moment. If anything about this day were ordinary, cold sweat wouldn't be sticking his shirt to his back.

Anakin turned to Threepio. "This is wrong. Let's get out of ..."

There was only a millisecond's warning in the form of an ominous, staccato clicking noise before the door opened. A cloud of flying metal nasties on stubby rotor wings swarmed out into the lift bay, surrounding man and droid before they could move.

_('A gift, Anakin. Make use of it.')_

"Oh, get way! Get away!" Threepio wailed, flailing with his arms. The bots were about the size of Anakin's hand. There were too many to knock down individually, but Anakin kept them at bay by swinging his lightsaber. The little predators tended to stick together in formation. When one moved away, the rest went too, in a humming, clicking wave.

Threepio had no protection. They were all over him. "Oh, my eye!" he cried from inside the swarm.

Jamming the Repulsorlift door open with his foot, Anakin swung his saber to keep the swarm out of it. "Don't back up, Threepio! Come toward me! That's it, a little closer..." Anakin dispersed the metallic cloud as best he could, then grabbed Threepio and pulled him inside the lift. The bots that came in with the droid tried to swarm again and, bunched up, were easy enough to dispatch. In no time the floor was littered with them.

Anakin set the lift hurtling downward. "I don't see the point of those things," he muttered, experimentally grinding one of the fallen bots under his heel. "They're not that dangerous..." Then he looked at Threepio. The droid was a mess. One eye was dangling from its socket, and much of the exposed wiring between his covering plates was frayed and sizzling.

"Oh," Anakin conceded. "Anti-droid weapon."

"Unpleasant things," Threepio moaned. "They were trying to short my wiring."

"Sorry, buddy. I'll fix the damage as soon as we get home."

"Are we far from the landing bay?" Threepio asked anxiously.

"No, it's on this level coming up..." Anakin touched the Repulsorlift control pad to bring it to a stop. Nothing happened. He tried again. _Access denied._ The pod kept moving downward.

Anakin blew out the breath he'd been holding. Gripped his saber hilt. Rotated his shoulders. Felt the sweat on his back and under his arms and the hard knot in his chest.

This felt like a game, not a test. Dooku was watching, toying with him. He was sure of it.

The lift slowed and stopped. Anakin made no move to open the doors. His eyes weren't stinging as much. He rubbed them with the back of his hand.

"Threepio, when you went for your cleaning, which way did they take you?"

"Down, Master Ani. Many levels down."

"Do you remember what level exactly?" The lift panel indicated level 12U.

Threepio swiveled his head to look at the panel with his remaining good eye. "This one."

Anakin looked around the repulsorlift; taking in the shiny curved walls, the light banks, all the seams and joins down to the tiniest recesses. Thinking. Assessing. He didn't open the lift doors. Instead, he activated his lightsaber blade. Twisting and turning it to vary the pitch of its familiar hum, he brought it closer to his face and leaned close to the droid before speaking.

"Quickly, Threepio. Keep your voice down and describe everything you saw when you were taken down here."

The droid did his best to comply, but needed several prompts to get to the information Anakin was looking for. The lightsaber kept moving, its pitch changing at irregular intervals.

_(Frowning, Dooku leaned over to adjust the volume control. It didn't help. He still couldn't make out what was being said.)_

When the droid stopped talking, Anakin spoke briefly and urgently. Then the humming blade disappeared and the Repulsorlift was silent.

Anakin looked back up at the ceiling, a long, searching look. Only then did he activate the curved silver doors.

_(In the faint bluish light of Dooku's holoscreen, Anakin's eyes looked cold. With equal coldness, Dooku touched a nearby control panel.)_

The lift doors opened to reveal a low, heavily armed droid of some kind, surrounded by a shimmering blue force field. Anakin's blade leaped toward the droid as if on its own accord. Sparks screeched where it skittered across the curved shield, but it did not penetrate. The droid's twin blasters erupted with fiery volleys that singed the outsides of Anakin's arms on their way to destroying the lift's back wall.

"Droideka!" Threepio wailed, cowering just out of blaster range.

"Oh, yeah?" Anakin had heard about them. It was sheer dumb luck that the killer droid's blasters were too widely spaced to hit a target standing directly in front of it. Now if he could just get past that shield... but however hard he tried, he couldn't. The droideka kept firing. Anakin was safe enough, but if it kept up, the Repulsorlift would be vaporized, and Threepio with it.

"Up ahead, Master Ani!"

"I see them."

It seemed that his luck had just run out. Two more droidekas were rolling down the corridor toward the lift, and behind them, three more, side by side. They were _fast_. Combined, their firing range would destroy anything in their path.

Only... when moving, they weren't shielded...

Anakin took a deep breath.

"Grrarrgh!" With an inchoate roar intended more to drive up his own adrenaline than as a statement, Anakin lunged at the droideka directly in front of him, taking the shock of the force field into his body so that he could kick it backwards. Sure enough, as soon as it began rolling, its shield vanished. With one determined slash, Anakin's lightsaber sliced the droid into symmetrical halves so easily that the blasters kept firing uselessly even as they fell.

_(Dooku leaned forward.)_

The other droidekas were closing rapidly, but they weren't firing. Maybe they couldn't fire or raise their shields while they were moving? Still trembling and numbed from the aftereffects of the first droid's plasma shield, Anakin threw himself onto the corridor's polished floor and rolled toward the oncoming droidekas like an insane top. The first two stopped, raised their shields and began to fire in perfect synchronicity, but on the floor Anakin was below their line of fire and perfectly positioned to destroy the nearest one ...

... provided he braved the damned shield again.

He felt himself hesitate; a perfectly rational response, considering the pain he was about to experience. Desperately, he called on some deep-down reservoir of will.

"Grrarrrgh!" he yelled again and, still keeping low, launched himself at it, this time with considerably more emotion. To his utter surprise, the nearest droideka began to tilt crazily before he even got there, and, in a surreal slow-motion moment, tipped all the way over onto its side, knocking its companion over with it. The moment they hit the ground, both droidekas' shields vanished and the firing stopped.

From the floor, Anakin stared at them open-mouthed.

_Really? Really!_

_(Dooku tensed. Watching. Waiting.)_

Staying low, Anakin wiped the sweat out of his eyes with a singed sleeve and watched the three remaining droidekas roll to a stop and activate their shields in the same, now-familiar sequence. Whatever he had done before had been an act of will. What he needed now was an act of faith – the confidence that he could call up that force again. He licked his dry lips, unsure that he could.

Seemingly ignoring Anakin (could it be that their field of vision was that narrow?) the droidekas began firing toward the repulsorlift. What were they targeting? Surely they only reacted to movement within their firing range...

_Oh, no! Threepio is still back there!_

With the battle yell to end all battle yells, Anakin hurled everything he had at the three blazing droids – all of his frustration and fury and impatience and stubborn resistance. Just about everything he felt poured out into one great wave of intent. From the floor three meters away he _demanded_ that they retreat.

As if they had been struck by an invisible wave, the three droidekas were pushed backwards. The firing stopped. Again, in motion their shields shut down. Anakin leaped up to attack them, dragged forward by the undertow of this own psychic wave. Seconds later, he found himself standing over hacked-up heaps of droid parts, panting, with sweat running into his eyes, and utterly drained.

_(Dooku leaned back._ '_Inefficient, but effective._ _Hopefully you will learn to use this skill without all the noise.')_

"You all right, Threepio?" Anakin wanted to call out, but he didn't. He forced himself _not_ to call out, _not_ to look back to see if Threepio was all right, but to step over the pieces of scrap and begin moving away from the lift. His limbs felt like lead. His heart thudded. It took every scrap of strength he had left to keep from looking back, but he made himself keep moving.

Soon he was trotting, and then sprinting. _Go straight, then turn right. Then another right... _He took the turns like a street racer, pushing off against the walls to propel himself faster. He zigzagged crazily. Now and then he let out a yell, as if he was racing through Beggar's Canyon back home, baiting womp rats. But in his head, the path he ran was straight and clear.

He could feel Dooku watching.

His destination loomed at the end of yet another monotone stretch of corridor; great, high metal cargo bay doors big enough to roll a starfighter through. Anakin slowed. Stopped. Touched the featureless metal. Searched vainly for a control pad. There didn't seem to be a way in. He ran his hand through his sweaty hair. Options tumbled through his mind. None were good enough, but he had no time to spare, so he chose the obvious one. His homemade lightsaber had made surprisingly short work of the droidekas. Surely a mere door...

He chose a spot near the center of the door that he thought might be least encumbered with the extra reinforcement of frame or hinges, and tried to drive in his glowing blade. The blade's pitch changed to a whine and slid slowly, slowly into the metal that began to glow and liquefied around it, but it was difficult and slow work. Not like the droids at all. A different alloy, probably. This was going to take time.

He had no time.

Trying not to think about Threepio, Anakin applied himself to his task, straining with the effort. The door was immensely thick; the blade sank in almost to the hilt. He needed every muscle in his body to pull it sideways to make a cut. Slowly, far too slowly, he began to outline an opening in the door. It only needed to be large enough to get his shoulders through, but at this rate, he wondered whether he would have the strength to finish it.

The far edges of his awareness sensed movement long before he heard the tramping of metal feet. Many metal feet. _Battledroids._ They were tracing the path he had come, following him to this place, and still he had cut less than half a meter. He could run or keep cutting. He kept cutting, the muscles in his arms and back strained nearly to the limit. He could feel the cords standing out in his neck; his jaw ached, and still he kept cutting.

The tramping grew louder, precise and rhythmic. Only one more turn, and whatever army Dooku had chosen to send against him would appear at the far end of the corridor. He cursed Dooku in every language that he knew, but still he kept cutting. A meter-long curved slash, not quite half the necessary circle, smoked in the door. It wasn't enough. His hands were slippery on the hilt. He tightened his grip and kept cutting, muscle against metal.

The sound of marching droid feet doubled in volume, meaning they had turned the last corner. Anakin looked up to see rows of huge, wide-shouldered battledroids, all torso and fists without much head to speak of. Not that they needed a head. They were marching straight toward him. He couldn't see any blasters, which was strange until he realized that their giant fists _were_ the blasters. Their arms were still at their sides. He went back to cutting, listening to their advance with every mote of attention he didn't need for the task.

The marching stopped.

The gouge was nearly a meter and a half long, almost three-quarters of a circle. Still not enough. He heard the great fists locking into firing position. A second of silence passed – even the lightsaber's hum stopped. The moment the droids began to fire, Anakin was flat on his back on the floor, protecting himself as best he could with his resurgent blade, but keeping an eye on the partly cut circle. The cargo bay doors took a huge volley of blaster fire along their entire width. Several times Anakin managed to deflect a stray blaster bolt in onto the circle, but he couldn't do it often without losing his protection.

At last he saw it. Movement in the metal. Weakness.

Twisting his body around so that his feet were against the door, Anakin flung his legs up and kicked in the hatch he had made with a little help from the battledroids. The hole was just about big enough for him to wriggle though, which he had to do back wards, keeping the shield of his lightsaber in front of him. Later, try as he might, Anakin could no longer remember exactly how he did it, but somehow, in a blur of pain, he finally found himself inside the cold, quiet cargo bay, staring up at the doors that had nearly defeated him.

_Blast doors. No wonder it was so hard. _

He was burned all down his sides and legs from the superheated metal, and his left shoulder was bleeding profusely (he'd probably caught a blaster bolt) but he was alive, and he was on the other side. Outside in the corridor the blasting continued, except for the occasional blast that found its way through the hole in the great door.

Setting his jaw against the pain, Anakin rolled to his feet and surveyed the huge space. It was filled with giant storage racks, each one fully laden with battledroids. The ones in the center looked like the ones he'd seen a decade before on Naboo – the skinny ones that required separate weapons. Old technology. Central control. He was more interested in the ones that stood in racks around the edge of the cargo bay – big black droids similar in size and configuration to the one that were attacking out in the corridor; only these looked sturdier, more efficient, and harder to destroy.

What interested him most was how they were controlled. If he were Dooku, how would he get the things out and loaded onto another ship?

Holding his injured shoulder, Anakin began to circle the cargo bay, looking for a control panel. He found a central computer console at the center of the room, but it only seemed to connect to the old style battle droids. The noise from the other side of the blast door was growing louder. They must have received reinforcements. He stopped short for a moment, wondering suddenly whether Dooku could control the droids in the cargo bay remotely, as he could the others.

Could he? Probably. But would he?

Anakin looked down at the blood that was pooling between his fingers where he gripped his shoulder, and concluded again that if Dooku truly wanted him dead, he wouldn't be here. He would never have made it this far.

_He just wants to torture me, and he's doing a good job of it._

Anakin picked up his pace. He was tired of fighting, and he was utterly fed up with having to do it alone. He missed his friends. He missed his home. It would take an army to get off the _Serena. _

He found what he was looking for at the back of the huge cargo bay, between two racks marked **B-2 Battle Droids**: a tall, narrow panel with computer access and a series of individual controls, each one seemingly referencing a single rack of droids.

_Let's see, ten droids per rack, four racks ought to do it... _As he hit each switch, a rack of B-2's straightened up and stepped forward, their small heads glowing.

"Report for duty," Anakin said experimentally, having not the faintest idea how to command battle droids.

"Ready, sir!" Forty computerized voices snapped in unison. Anakin couldn't help smiling, albeit a little crookedly (one side of his face was stiff and sore.)

"I am your commander for this mission," Anakin improvised. "My orders supersede all others, no matter what codes are used. (He wasn't so sure that would work, but it was worth a try.) You will not deviate from your mission, which is to guard me and get me safely and by the shortest possible route onto my cargo ship on landing platform 13C."

_(Dooku reached for a control panel, but then withdrew his hand.) _

"Yessir!"

Anakin's grin widened. He pointed at the nearest hulking killer droid. "You will serve as platoon leader. Call formation!"

It worked like magic. Within moments Anakin was at the center of an orderly huddle of 2.5-meter tall, heavily armed battle droids. The cargo bay's damaged blast doors opened easily from the inside, and he found himself trotting quite safely toward the droids that were massed in the corridor. The B-2's at the front of Anakin's platoon dispatched the attackers in short order. Anakin didn't have to lift a finger, which was a good thing because his hands were so slippery with the blood from his shoulder wound that he didn't think he could hold onto his lightsaber. His 40-strong personal guard thundered through the Serena's corridors like a herd of banthas, keeping him safely in the middle, and all he had to do was to keep jogging at the same pace. At the moment, that seemed like all the challenge he could handle.

_Well, Dooku? _ Anakin wondered. _What are you going to throw at me now? _He wondered all the way to landing platform 13 C, which they reached by taking complicated routes and using vast cargo lifts that whose existence Anakin hadn't even imagined, but nothing impeded their progress. The only hitch was that the landing bay doors were sealed, but a few well-placed blasts from the B-2's blew them open quickly and efficiently.

There, looking small and shabby at center of the otherwise empty landing bay was the _Desert Queen, _her interior lit, her engines thrumming, and her cargo bay doors wide open.

Anakin's eyes misted over. _Threepio! You made it! _ Taking the attention off the droid had worked. Everything had worked. Anakin felt himself sagging with tiredness and relief.

_(Dooku folded his hands carefully together on his desk and waited, stiller than still.)_

"Thanks, guys," Anakin said. "At ease."

As one, eighty massive fists swiveled, unlocked and were lowered.

Threepio peeked out from the cockpit, looking mangled and more dismayed than ever. "Oh, Master Ani! Are you all right? You're wounded..."

"I'm fine, Threepio. You did great. Get inside and strap in."

Anakin studied his hard-won escort, assessing them with an adventurer's heart and a pirate's eye. _Why stop now? _He deserved a little souvenir...

He gestured toward the Desert Queen's cargo hold. "Get in and shut down. Tight formation."

The massive droids filed inside, and with a little encouragement he got them packed in tightly, shoulder to shoulder, until the hold was full. As a precaution, he manually shut down each one, in case Dooku had some unknown method of remotely activating them from the _Serena. _The _Desert Queen_ was small but capacious, and Anakin managed to find space for thirty of the massive things before he had to give up. Not a bad day's scavenging, all in all.

Making sure that he had manually deactivated each of the ten B-2's that remained standing on the platform (it was a shame he couldn't salvage those, too, but there was nothing to be done), Anakin pulled himself wearily into the pilot's seat. Everything hurt. Wiping his blood-sticky hands as best he could on his leggings, he set the navicomputer for Tatooine and looked around the landing bay. Everything was quiet. Where was Dooku? Had he given up?

_(Dooku closed his eyes. Waiting. Waiting.)_

Her engines grumbling, the _Desert Queen_ rolled forward toward the landing bay's space doors. After a moment, she stopped.

Anakin stared at the closed doors, and finally – finally! – realized that he had no way of opening them. A quick glance around the landing bay showed it to be featureless. There wasn't a control panel anywhere. He didn't know the frequencies that controlled the doors to try to hack them, and even if he did, Dooku could easily stop any attempt he made to do that. After all that fighting, all that effort, he wasn't any freer than he had been before he'd set out to meet Dooku's challenge. He had come so far, and yet he was nowhere. He had achieved nothing. _Nothing!_

Anakin closed his eyes to hold back the hot, bitter tears that threatened to spill over. He listened to his breaths, shallow but steady. His left shoulder throbbed and burned in rhythm with each pulse even though the wound had finally stopped bleeding. Shreds of sleeve stuck to it by thick crusts of dried blood tugged at the wound whenever he moved his arm. He stopped moving it. The right side of his face ached, and if he thought about it, the outsides of his thighs burned from his hips to the tops of his boots. He stopped thinking about it. He stopped thinking about anything. Dooku's face hovered in his mind, somewhere behind his eyes, and he stopped thinking about that, too. He noticed only his breaths and the blood pounding in his ears. The faint electronic noises of the _Queen's _instruments and the dull beat of her engines hardly entered his consciousness.

Alone and defeated, Anakin withdrew inside, retreating into the familiarity of fragile life. He _was_ alive, but what did that matter if his whole universe consisted of nothing but dead metal shapes and forms floating in an endless vacuum lit only by indifferent stars?

_(Dooku's head slowly began to droop toward his chest, as if in surrender.)_

Just as a living heart never stops beating, a living mind is never entirely still. In the way that maps of the _Serena _had appeared in Anakin's mind in the smoke and darkness of his escape, images began to appear and coalesce in the emptiness of his quiet mind. They too were maps of a kind – schematics both accessible and reassuring to a tinkerer and inventor. Door frames and hinge mechanisms, complex locks and machined puzzle pieces that fit together this way and, with the application of energy here and there, were designed to move thus and so...

Anakin's eyes flew open. The space doors looked just the same, but in the images in his mind they were transparent, a 3-D rendering, a shimmering holo-image. He knew exactly how the doors worked. He knew how to trigger them to open; it was simple, really, a question of energy informing matter, which was after all, another form of energy...

Quietly, without engaging his body at all, without screams or leaps of adrenaline or even the slightest movement of a muscle, Anakin formed a picture in his mind of what needed to happen for the doors to open. He visualized the signal – a thing without substance, and yet substantial; he formed it, instructed it to surge through the appropriate circuitry and conduits, and brought it gently and precisely to bear on the sensors that waited to receive it. A bluish tinge appeared around the doors, indicating that the space shields had activated. The platform's guide lights sprang on, outlining a runway. The platform beneath the _Desert Queen _began to vibrate as the gigantic space doors began to slide open.

_(Dooku's head snapped up. His white-knuckled hands released their grip and came to rest gently on his desk. His eyes opened, staring ahead at a new, almost unimaginably glorious future.)_

Anakin leaped into action. The _Desert Queen_ rolled forward again, picked up speed, and shot out the doors, hurtling away from the _Serena_ and toward home.


	17. Chapter 16 Homecoming

**Chapter 16. Homecoming**

The homeward journey always seems so much faster than the one that leads into the unknown. It seemed to Anakin that he barely had time to clean up, dress his wounds, and find some spare clothes that weren't caked with blood, shredded, or scorched. Luckily, he'd found one spare set of clothing on the _Queen,_ since he'd abandoned everything but his lightsaber on the _Serena._ They were a far cry from the luxurious ensembles that Dooku had insisted upon, but he liked their comfortable shabbiness.

He dealt with his injuries as best he could using the standard medkit on board. The burns and lacerations would heal soon enough once he'd lathered them with bacta, but the gash on his shoulder was deep and jagged, which needed seeing to. He dressed it as well as his meager supplies allowed, and thought of trying the kind of healing trance that Dooku had taught him. But the moment he shut his eyes he fell deeply asleep, and didn't awaken until the proximity alarm screeched that he was nearly home.

While it seemed as if only a moment had passed, the hours of quiet had tightened his bruised muscles to a stiff, sore mass. His injured arm didn't want to move at all, and when he forced it to stretch, the wound broke open and began to bleed again. _Oh, well._ He was nearly there. He would take care of it when he could.

He glanced at Threepio, who had also shut down for the journey. What a mess. Without switching him on, Anakin quickly repaired the droid's dangling eye and did what he could with the loose and singed wiring. Even in his sorry condition, Threepio looked rather magnificent compared to his former shabby, unpolished state. When he was fixed, he would be fit for service at a palace. Anakin grinned at the thought of the questions the old droid's appearance would raise. He'd be telling stories in the cantina for weeks...

Before he knew it, Tatooine loomed up in the _Desert Queen's_ viewscreen. It was night over the desert settlements, but from high up, dawn's aura illuminated the curvature of the planet. Far below, the lights of Mos Espa were a faint smudge in the gloom. If he landed there, it wouldn't be long before someone figured out he had returned. In an hour, maybe less, he would be mobbed, which would make it easier to find out where Padmé and Kenobi were, but harder to do anything about it.

Rubbing his eyes, Anakin thought about contacting Remy, who was probably insane with worry. Then he thought about all the explaining he'd have to do. Truth was he wasn't up to telling stories yet. He needed time to make sense of everything he had experienced.

He flew on. The farm was calling to him. He needed to see his mother. Remy and the others would have to wait.

He landed the _Desert Queen_ quite near the house and garage, and woke up the droid. On the ground it was still pitch dark, but the night shields gave the farm's domes an eerie greenish glow.

"Come on, Threepio. And watch your step."

Threepio looked around, seemingly delighted. "Oh, Master Ani, may I say that am very glad to be home at last!"

Anakin smiled at the gleaming droid. "I'm not sure they'll even recognize you." He used his sleeve to polish a dull brown streak of dried blood off one of Threepio's golden shoulder plates. "There. Good as new."

Making his way across the cool night sand, an unsettling feeling that something about the farm was different kept nagging at him. It looked all right from the outside; everything was quiet, and the shields had been set properly. At the perimeter gate he waited for a moment to see whether anyone had noticed his arrival. He'd half expected the rumble of the _Queen's_ big old engines to wake everyone up. But when he stretched out his senses, he could feel the deep quiet of sleeping beings inside in a way he never had before.

Maybe that was why it seemed different to him - why something indefinable prickled in his awareness. He perceived everything differently now, that was all. There was more information to process. He took a breath.

The night shields could only be activated from the inside. Any breach of the perimeter set off alarms. As much from curiosity as from any hesitation to wake everyone up, Anakin directed his awareness toward the shield mechanism inside. (He knew every cell and circuit. After all, he had designed and installed it.) Carefully he visualized the adjustments that had to be made, and threw his will at the mechanism, as he had done with the space doors on the _Serena._ He felt something shift, and then heard the telltale hum of the retracting shields. The glow faded.

_Nice_! Anakin grinned in the dark. Almost as good as having a lightsaber, maybe better. He could just imagine the possibilities...

"Let's be quiet, Threepio. I don't want to wake everybody up." He wasn't quite ready to endure the barrage of questions and explanations that would erupt when they saw him - at least, not until he got the shoulder wound taken care of.

Anakin crept noiselessly down the steep stairs, as surefooted as if it had been daylight. Threepio wasn't quite so skilled, and descended with a clatter. With a word of reassurance, Anakin switched him off in his usual place beneath the stairs, and continued silently across the pitch-black atrium. Near the kitchen, he stopped. His skin prickled. He sensed living beings, but he couldn't distinguish between them, or determine how many there were. (That was something he needed to work on. Later.)

He crept toward the chamber where he kept his few belongings and his clothes. He needed a clean tunic. All the dried blood would worry his mother.

The bed creaked. _His_ bed. Anakin froze.

Someone sighed softly, as if in sleep. A faint scent wafted toward him - light, but distinct. Perfume? No one on the farm used perfume. He wondered whether Beru had stayed over, and for some reason they had put her in Anakin's chamber. Maybe Owen had brought her an exotic scent from the market? As soon as the thought occurred, he dismissed it. It wasn't Beru. He didn't know how he knew it, but he did.

Thrown off balance, Anakin hovered by the door. Now what?

He mapped the room out in his mind. His clothes were on the shelves on the side opposite the door, not more than three or four strides away. He _could_ just sneak in and grab what he needed...

Two steps inside, he tripped over a low, heavy object that had not been on his mental map and careened against the shelves, smashing his wounded shoulder in the process.

"AAH!" The pain was like getting hurt all over again.

"SQEEEEEE!" A small, dome-shaped droid flared into chattering, squealing life.

"EEH!" a woman's voice gasped at the same time.

Lights flew on. Holding his shoulder, eyes blinking against the sudden glare, Anakin struggled to get his feet back under him. The first thing he saw was a pair of blasters pointed at his head, held in steady fists by two deadly calm men. Professionals, by the look of them.

"What in the seven hells are you doing in my house?" Anakin swore, undaunted. "And who is..."

"Ani?"

He looked up. There SHE was...

... There she was! ... with her eyes wide and her hair tumbling all over her shoulders...

Not a Queen. Just Padmé, come back to him. Somehow, it felt utterly right to find her there.

"Padmé, you're here!" Ignoring the men and their blasters, he stumbled to the low bed. "You're all right! I've been going crazy since I heard he's been trying to kill you." With his good arm, he tried to gather her into a hug, but a determined hand yanked him back by his bad shoulder, making him yell with pain.

"Don't hurt him!" Padmé shouted, and then more quietly, "It's all right. This is Anakin Skywalker, the man I came to see."

Anakin grinned through the pain, unreasonably pleased to hear her refer to him in that way. Maybe he had grown up, but Padmé looked exactly the same. The long years between seemed to collapse into nothing.

"You can go," Padmé said with authority in her voice when the men lingered, glaring at Anakin. "Really. He's my friend."

From the floor, Anakin glared at the interlopers defiantly. "Her _best_ friend!"

Slowly, unwillingly, the blasters were lowered.

"If you're sure, My Lady."

"We will be right outside, My Lady." With a last threatening look at Anakin and formal bows to Padmé, they backed out the door.

Anakin resisted a childish urge to stick his tongue out at them. Instead he turned to Padmé, and forgot about them instantly.

"My Lady..." He imitated the guard's bows even though he was sitting on the floor.

"Oh, stop it." Padmé shoved him a little with her toe. "You scared me to death."

"Well, I didn't exactly expect to come home and find you in my bed," he shot back, but when he replayed the words he'd blurted out his cheeks flushed hot. "I mean... you know..."

Padmé shook her head in exasperated disbelief.

"Where have you been?"

"What are you doing here?"

They spoke at the same time, and stopped at the same time. Anakin opened his mouth again to speak, but Padmé raised her hand to stop him.

"Me first."

"Whatever you say."

Padmé began to say something, and then stopped, looking distracted. At last she said, " I have no idea where to begin. There is so much I want to tell you – so much I want to know..."

They stared at one another.

"You _are_ ... taller. I wouldn't have recognized you."

Anakin didn't know whether to blush or to preen, so he did both, running one hand a little hopelessly through his grubby hair. "You look just the same, Padmé. It feels like you never left... like all those years in between never happened."

Padmé smiled happily, then her expression hardened. "Wait...you said something... about someone ... who is trying to kill me?"

"Oh... right. Dooku. Count Dooku of Serenno..."

"I know who he is. How do you know that he is behind it?"

"I... just know. I spoke to him. But you ..."

"You _spoke_ to him? Anakin, is that where you've been? With Dooku?"

Anakin sighed. In the glorious surprise of Padmé's presence, he'd practically forgotten about everything else. He certainly didn't want to talk about it. "Yes, but you don't have to worry any more, Padmé. It's over. He's not going to try again."

"What do you mean?" Padme stared at him with that expression that Anakin didn't like. It was all business.

"Please, Padmé." He leaned closer. "I'll tell you all about it, I promise. But not right now. I'm so happy to see you ... I want to know everything about you. About your life. What are you doing here?"

Padmé sighed. Her eyes softened again, to Anakin's relief. "It seems that once again I have come to you seeking refuge." There was a faint flush on her cheeks. "And I'm very happy to see you, too..."

She lowered her eyes, and then froze.

"Anakin..."

"What?"

"Is that blood? There, on your sleeve."

"Oh, that's nothing."

Out in the atrium, someone called his name. "Ani?"

"It's Mom!" Anakin shot to his feet while awkwardly stripping off his freshly bloodstained tunic. "Quick! Hand me one of those shirts - over there on that stack."

Padmé gasped when she saw the gash on his shoulder and the bacta patches all over his torso. "What happened to you? You have to clean and dress that! Here, let me help..."

"No!" Anakin whispered fiercely, reaching over her to grab the shirt himself. Her hair tickled his ribs. "Mom's coming. I can't let her see me like this. I'll do it later!" He yanked the clean shirt over his head, trying not to groan, and then wadded the bloody one up, looking around desperately for a place to stash it.

"Anakin..."

He looked up. "What?"

"Shmi can't see you."

He stopped for a moment. "I thought..."

"Ani?" Shmi was coming closer.

Anakin looked at the bloody cloth in his hand uncertainly. "She'll know anyway. She always knows."

"Here, give me that." Pressing her lips together tightly, Padmé took the wadded shirt from him and tucked it into a low chest by the bed. That hadn't been there when he'd left, either.

"Thanks."

"I _don't_ approve of deceiving your mother," she hissed under her breath.

"Would you rather _upset_ her?" Anakin hissed back.

"Ani?" Shmi appeared outside the doorway, searching for the frame with her hands.

"Mom!" Anakin launched himself at her, remembering to vault the droid, which looked vaguely familiar. (Who left astromech droids in the middle of the bedroom floor, anyway?) He also remembered to hug her gently. Shmi looked just as she had when he had left.

"I had hoped to find you healed," he murmured. "I sent some equipment..."

"Soon, Ani, soon. The medicenter is nearly ready."

"The medicenter?"

"There is much to tell." Shmi's fingers found his cheek.

Anakin turned to kiss them. "I found Padmé," he said happily.

"I found her... first."

Anakin laughed.

"Well, well, look who decided to come back!"

Anakin's laugh died away. Standing in the half-dark of the alcove, flanked by the two professionals with the blasters, Cliegg didn't look very happy to see him. "Where have you been all this time? And what the hell were you thinking, waking everybody up?"

Anakin sagged. All at once, the weariness of the past fraught days settled over him. His shoulder hurt abominably.

Before he could think of a suitable answer (a futile effort; there wasn't one), Padmé appeared next to him and Shmi, tying an exotic-looking wrap over the filmy white thing she'd been wearing in bed.

"It seems we all have tales to tell," she said gently, going straight to Cliegg. "I think a good meal is in order, don't you? I would like to make it for everyone, but I need you to show me where things are."

Cliegg's tone changed dramatically. He sounded almost shy. "You don't have to do that, Missy. I'll take care of it."

"But I'd like to," Padmé insisted, taking his arm and turning him toward the kitchen, "to show my appreciation for your kindness. Won't you please help me?" Cliegg followed her lead meekly.

Before she turned away, Padmé looked into Anakin's eyes, shot an unmistakably pointed glance down at his shoulder, and then looked back into his eyes. It was a direct order: _Fix it, or else..._

_Angel,_ he mouthed to her, still hugging his mother.

The men with blasters kept staring at Anakin.

He just grinned.

Padmé's gesture of preparing first meal for the Lars family was a masterful piece of diplomacy. In fact, she hardly had to lift a finger in the strange little kitchen. Whenever she made a move in any direction, Cliegg intercepted it clumsily, attempting to do everything for her. It wasn't long before young Rhea appeared, her eyes still heavy with sleep, but her hair tidily braided.

"I'm so sorry, My Lady. I was fast asleep and no one came to wake me."

"It's all right, child," Padmé soothed her quickly. "Everything happened rather quickly."

Rhea was about to murmur yet another soft protest about having been banished to a far chamber to sleep rather than sharing Padmé's, when the sudden sight of the person who had caused all of the uproar rendered her mute. The boy from Vespé's holovid - the one who had freed slaves and chased gangsters off the world they had occupied for generations - was in the atrium a few feet away from her. Only he wasn't a boy. And although he was crouched next to Shmi's chair, totally absorbed in talking to her, it seemed to Rhea as if he filled up the whole space, completely changing its atmosphere to something electrical that sparked along every nerve.

Realizing that she was staring rudely, Rhea glanced guiltily at her mistress, but Padmé hadn't noticed. She was paying attention to Farmer Lars with the same look of animated forbearance she wore when speaking with oppositional colleagues and people who bored her. She wanted rescuing, Rhea realized.

"My Lady, Master Lars, won't you please allow me to do this for you?"

"Thank you, Rhea," Padmé said serenely, as if it had all been prearranged. "That is very kind."

Lars, whose embarrassment at being sandwiched into his kitchen between two strange women was apparent, acceded just as quickly.

"Well, if you don't mind, young Missy..."

"It would be my pleasure."

On her way out, Padmé touched Rhea gratefully on the shoulder, and headed straight over to Shmi. Rhea stared after her. Or was it Anakin whom Padmé was hurrying toward? Rhea watched the way he immediately stood up when Padmé approached, and the way his face lit up when he looked at her. She glimpsed a little of Padmé's answering smile from the side, in profile. All at once, Padmé seemed like a different person. Any lingering sense of illness or fragility had vanished.

Suddenly embarrassed, as if by merely looking she had intruded on a private moment, Rhea busied herself with her task. It was a good thing that she had helped Beru with the cooking before, or she wouldn't have had any more of a clue how the little kitchen worked than Padmé did. It was a pity, she thought sadly, that Beru wasn't here now. She would have enjoyed a little gossip. And a little help.

Sliding one more glance toward the group in the atrium, Rhea admitted to herself that it wasn't Beru she wished for, but Eirtaé. However annoying the elder Handmaiden had become since the Jedi entered their lives, she was the only one who might help her make sense of the strange, new Padmé who had appeared after her illness; the Padmé who seemed to relish life in a hovel and never talked about the Senate, or even about home. The one whose whole attention seemed to be focused entirely upon the tattered stranger. Confused and feeling oddly bereft, Rhea returned to her duty and produced a meal that in the end, she was actually a little proud of.

The persistent sense that time had collapsed, merging the past with the somewhat surreal present, stayed with Anakin throughout the meal he shared with his family and Padmé's people. (Padmé, of course, he counted as family.) The men with blasters (who turned out to be part of Padmé's personal guard detail, and who took their jobs very, very seriously) and a young Handmaiden (who kept studying Anakin from under her lashes in a most annoying way) joined them at the table. There was hardly room for everyone, and Anakin was painfully aware of the wordless hostility that radiated from the silent bodyguard who sat squashed next to him on the bench.

From across the table, Padmé also kept looking at him in a way that was less annoying but more disconcerting, because of the perpetual little frown between her eyes. Anakin found his appetite wasn't up to his usual, but he kept his voice light and pretended to eat for Shmi's sake. She sat comfortably at one end of the table, with Anakin close by at her right, and despite her blindness, seemed much stronger than she had been when he'd left.

Anakin felt hot. Maybe he wasn't used to Tatooine's climate after the comfortably cool _Serena._ Once or twice he surreptitiously wiped the sweat off his upper lip and his temple with his sleeve.

The _Serena._ Anakin looked down at his plate but saw only the hot flare of blaster fire in her cool, softly lit corridors, and smelled not the food in front of him, but his own charred skin and blood. He felt Padmé's attention on him and quickly stuffed a bite of something into his mouth. It took a long time to swallow. Mercifully the conversation around him stayed on local topics. He didn't know what he would do if they asked him to tell his story. At the moment, he hardly had it straight in his own mind..

The meal was nearly over when a cheery voice rang out from the top of the stairs.

"Anakin, brother? Have you been leaving your ugly old spaceships parked on our nice clean sand again?"

Anakin pushed away his barely touched plate with some relief and waved at Owen. "Where've you been?"

"Oh," Owen said sarcastically, "I didn't get any of the messages you obviously left all over Tatooine that you were on your way home."

"Ah..."

"Yeah."

Owen trotted down the stairs and stopped by Threepio. "What'd you do to Mom's droid? He's a mess!"

"We caught a little fire, that's all," Anakin mumbled, promising himself that he'd throttle Owen later. "I'll fix him."

Shmi's hand found Anakin's wrist. Anxiety pulsed through her touch. "You _caught_ fire? Anakin, what does that mean?"

"Means he got shot at," Owen said, too cheerfully.

"Anakin!" Shmi sounded horrified. Cliegg grunted and shook his head grimly.

"It's all right, Mom. Really it is. No harm done." Anakin tried to smile, but his head hurt like blazes and he was feeling a little woozy. It was hard to know what to say because he was fully preoccupied with trying to figure out a way to excuse himself and maybe get some rest ... a little sleep, that's what he needed ... without upsetting Shmi. In desperation, he raised his eyes to Padmé's to plead silently for help, but the expression on her face didn't look promising.

"Anakin, you don't look at all well," she announced firmly.

He shook his head tersely to warn her off ..._ No... no..._ but she was completely uncooperative.

"Really?" Owen came up behind him, clapping his hand on Anakin's throbbing left shoulder in brotherly greeting. "What seems to be the trouble?"

Anakin yelled yelped in pain – he couldn't help himself. Shmi let out a little shriek. Everyone started talking at once. Once again, it was Padmé who brought order to the pandemonium merely by raising her hand and expecting everyone's attention. She got it. The voices stilled. All eyes looked to her for ... well, for orders, it seemed. Anakin would have been impressed if he hadn't been confused by the fact that there seemed to be two of her... no, was it three...?

"Anakin has a wound that needs looking at. He didn't want to worry you, Shmi, but he needs immediate medical attention."

"I'll have a look," Cliegg growled, pushing himself away from the table.

"Anakin, is it bad?" Shmi worried, leaning close.

"No, Mom, not at all." He wished it wasn't so hot, and that people wouldn't talk so loudly...

He kind of lost track of what happened next, but somehow he found himself flat on his back with a lot of faces looking down at him. The nearest one was Cliegg's. Anakin tried to shrink away, but on the floor there was nowhere else to go. Somewhere over Cliegg's head an argument was going on.

"I just came from the medicenter," Owen was insisting. "Dax said we can bring Shmi now – she's got the whole thing up and running. Might as well bring him along, too."

_Dax?_ Anakin wondered. _What's a Dax_?

"I said I can handle it," Cliegg snapped, too close to Anakin's face for comfort. He was jabbing something into Anakin's shoulder. It hurt like hell. "I've started him on something for the infection. I'll just clean up the gash..."

"No!" Shmi shouted.

Everyone fell silent.

"No... Cliegg... please. Take... to town. _Please_ ... Cliegg." Shmi clutched at her husband, willing him to understand her.

Cliegg's scowling face moved away from Anakin's as he rocked back on his heels. Anakin sighed with relief.

"All right, Shmi. All right. We'll do what _you_ want. Owen..."

"I'm way ahead of you, Dad. Hey, bro..." Owen bent over Anakin. "You got the key for that clunker of yours?"

"My... what?"

"Your space ship. The old heap you parked out by the vaporators."

"_The Queen,"_ Anakin mumbled. "... the _Desert Queen."_

There was a short silence while everybody tried not to look at Padmé, who hardly noticed. She was holding Shmi's hand, but her eyes remained fixed on Anakin.

Owen shook his head. "Whatever you say, bro. Just give me the passcode so I can get that thing up in the air."

"Same one ... we used... war..."

"You've gotta stop using the same one. You'll get hacked..."

There was a lot of bustling around. Anakin lay where he was, letting it all wash over him. It was getting harder and harder to concentrate.

Padmé's voice said, "Shmi, this may be the opportunity you have been waiting for. I'll contact Dax and tell her to get ready for both of you..."

Other voices joined in, but really, after that, everything was mostly a blur. _Cliegg gave me something,_ Anakin thought stupidly. _It's making me sleepy.._. He felt himself being moved to stretcher, and then bumped awkwardly up the stairs and out under the searing sky. It didn't feel too bad, though. It was like it was happening to somebody else. The urge to let go, to sleep, kept tugging at him, but he resisted, stubbornly refusing to give in even when there was no reason not to. The struggle left him in an odd twilight state, a narrow frontier between oblivion and consciousness full of heat, light, sounds and smells, many of them familiar, but nothing making sense. Reassuringly familiar voices faded in and out.

"Hang on a sec, bro, we've got to get everybody loaded," someone said clearly, and then he was on the on the ground with only the thin cloth of the stretcher between him and the hot sand. He almost slipped into sleep but Owen... (it sounded like Owen)... said something that caused a ruckus. Voices yelled, "Droids? What droids? and "What do you mean, there's no room?" Curious, Anakin tried to raise his head, but his whole body was as heavy as if it were made of duristeel. It was too bright out even with his eyes shut to think about opening them, so he just lay there until a soft hand stroked his hot brow and along his temple to rest lightly on his cheek.

_Padmé._

"Anakin, Owen is going to take you into Mos Espa with one of my security guards along to help carry you. The rest of us will follow when we get transport."

"Mrph!"

"Stop being so foolish and allow yourself to be helped, will you please? Let Dax take care of you. I trust her."

_Dax again... wait... it's a she?_

The soft hand lingered, then went away and he felt himself being lifted and awkwardly strapped into a seat on the _Queen. That_ hurt. Even through the haze, his shoulder felt like it was on the wrong end of a blowtorch. Then the rumble of big old engines rocked him like a lullaby, and he probably did doze off. When they quieted, the stench of the town washed over him like an old memory. The pain flared again when they hauled him out of the _Queen_ and into another transport, only it didn't subside. Either whatever Cliegg had given him was wearing off, or the arm was getting worse. It hadn't hurt this much even when he first tore it, and this morning it had hardly bothered him at all.

By the time Owen and Padmé's guard had dragged him back onto the stretcher and brought him into some building, Anakin was shaking uncontrollably.

"Dax? You here?" Owen yelled.

"Keep yer shirt on," a gravelly woman's voice replied. "What's the problem?

It was cool and dim inside, so Anakin risked opening his eyes. It wasn't easy to keep them open with hot sweat running into them. A new face loomed over him. He couldn't make it out very well through the blur.

"Hang on there, son," the new face said. "What's the trouble?"

Owen explained briefly about "brother" and "shoulder." Anakin felt agony and then sudden relief when somebody cut the sleeve away from his swollen, raging arm. The relief ended when the new face let out a long, low whistle and swore softly.

"Get him inside there. Be quick!"

'_There_' turned out to be a room unlike anything on Tatooine. Stark white, with smooth-sealed walls, soft lights, and loaded with gleaming equipment, it took Anakin's fevered mind straight back to the _Serena._ Something about it felt cold even through his heat that raged through him. He could almost feel Dooku's shadow behind it ... Dooku, who had baited him and tested him, and taught him that nothing was what it seemed...

Strong arms slid him onto a table underneath a sophisticated canopy that looked like the control panel of a starship. The sense of oppression, of being boxed in, was so strong he began to protest, "No ... No!"

"Take it easy, son. This is a top-grade medical facility. You're lucky to have it nearby. As a matter of fact, you're our first official guest."

When four gleaming silver droids surrounded the table on which he lay, Anakin lost it.

"NO!" he yelled again, twisting his torso and kicking out with his legs to lever himself off the table. It took everyone present to hold him down.

"What the hell's wrong with you, bro?" Owen demanded. "You're in the new medicenter. This is the equipment _you_ sent to help Mom. Dax here helped us to put it all together."

"WHO'S DAX?" Anakin roared, still struggling.

"Me. I'm Senator Amidala's medic," the new face announced calmly. "And now I'm yours."

At the mention of Padmé, Anakin settled down a little.

"You gonna stop fighting now?"

He nodded, still tense all over.

"Cause here's your choice. You can stay here and let me and the boys" ... she waved to indicate the droids ... "take care of it, or I guarantee you will lose the arm. The whole arm. If you're lucky, only the arm. Got that?"

"It's a scratch..." Anakin whispered.

"Maybe it was. It isn't now. You got yourself infected by something nasty. We'll know just what it is when we do the analysis. In the meantime, I'm going to give you something to calm you down and help with the pain." The Dax beckoned to the nearest droid. It came closer. Anakin shrank away.

"Don't trust... Dooku ... droids... never trust... NO!"

"Not Dooku. _Dax._ Me," the woman said firmly, taking the patch from the droid and waving the shining silver thing away. "I run things around here. You can trust _me."_ Gently, but with a firm grip, she caught Anakin's chin and attached the patch behind his left ear before he could twist away. "There you go. Be better in a minute."

For that whole minute, Anakin stared at her fixedly. She stared back, unflinching.

Dax won because Anakin blinked first. He was out cold before his eyelids had closed all the way.


	18. Chapter 17 Turn and Turn Again

**Chapter 17. Turn and Turn Again**

From the moment Popper and Solly found him communing with the pool of water, Obi-Wan Kenobi had become a fixture in the life of the secret cave, as immutable as the rocks themselves, and nearly as communicative. He spent most of the time sitting with his eyes closed, completely oblivious to his surroundings. He did this day and night, causing his minders considerable inconvenience.

_It is one thing to acknowledge that your Masters were right. It is quite another to watch the truth open up like a starburst, each fragment of the original, slumbering kernel exploding into its own trajectory... flying high and wide until no part of the universe remains unlit by a falling cinder. _

_The image is the same, over and over: a nucleus, a tiny seed, previously overlooked, bursting open. Not an unfolding. A blast._

"Keep an eye on Kenobi," Remy had ordered from town, where he was stuck until the latest Farmer's Market was finished. "Don't bother him, but don't let him out of your sight, and let me know the minute he decides to leave."

This was easier said than done since the Jedi either never slept, or was always asleep (the men weren't sure what he was doing). If two men watched together, they were in danger of both eventually dozing off; if they took it in turns, they nearly died of boredom. Eventually they called in reinforcements and took the job in shifts, so that there was always a pair of desert men somewhere nearby, sitting cross-legged in an unconscious imitation of the Jedi's posture while talking in low tones or playing games. The only diversions from the tedium were the rare occasions when the Kenobi roused himself to drink water or to relieve himself, As far as the men could tell, he ate nothing. On those occasions he invariably greeted whoever was with him politely, but he seemed absent, like nobody was home behind his eyes.

_Images. Pictures. There has to be a way to make sense of it. The Force speaks in metaphor. We have to supply the understanding. _

_So this is what my Masters have been struggling with: the possibilities laid out before them like reflections on water. Grasp the picture, try to touch it in any way, and it's gone..._

_How... and where ... to intervene before image becomes actuality, before possibility becomes truth? Or has it already? How can we know? How can I find the right point of entry, especially with this creeping darkness that clouds everything?_

Sometimes he stood for an hour or two, wrapped in solitude by the upper cave mouth, where the view over the nearly featureless desert stretched out to the horizon. Occasionally rubbing his face or the back of his neck, or even pacing slowly the breadth of the opening, Kenobi gave the impression of a man in conflict with himself. The men wouldn't have been surprised if one day he just walked out into the sand. He seemed to want to. But after each of these interludes he returned to the edge of the pool, closed his eyes, and with several long, slow breaths, turned back into a statue.

_This kernel, this tight knot of unleashed forces: the Council believes it is Anakin. Perhaps it is, but no process, even one as powerful as germination, is activated without the action of additional forces: heat, light, pressure..._

_Pressure..._

_Wait... the picture is shifting... re-forming like a kaleidoscope when the center moves..._

_The center is..._

_Moving. The center is..._

_Near. The center is..._

_... here._

The Force swirled with intent. The precise meaning of those charged currents remained to be discovered, but their direction became increasingly clear: it seemed as if everything was hurtling towards Tatooine.

_Towards me._

_Anakin is here._

_I am here, where I am supposed to be._

_..._

_..._

_Am I enough?_

The _Serena _covered the distance from the Outer Rim to Coruscant in an unbelievable 1.5 standard days. Dooku used the time to complete the business that he had put aside while working with Anakin. He worked steadily without pause until he was certain that he could face his Master with complete confidence, no matter what questions were thrown at him. Only then, with a scant few hours remaining before the ship everted from hyperspace, did he allow himself a meal and some rest. But even after such a concentrated period of work, sleep eluded him.

_Nerves,_ he thought. _ Like a Youngling's. _His state of inner turmoil was frustrating; worse, it was demeaning to one of his age and skill. But it was also undeniable.

Jedi training strove to stamp out desire. Sith training made it a tool. Which was he? He had glimpsed a new future and burned with craving for it, but rather than forcing Anakin to his will, he had exercised restraint.

A Jedi would not yearn – but he did. A Sith would not hesitate to help himself to something he coveted – and yet he had held back from crushing Anakin's will.

Several times he checked the data feed from the medical equipment on Tatooine. Nothing. Apparently, it had not yet been used. Even if it had, there was no guarantee that he would learn anything useful about Anakin or those around him. It was merely another tiny stream of information among the millions he collected about everything and everyone that was of interest to him. The really valuable source would have been Anakin's protocol droid, but apparently the new transmitter had been damaged during Anakin's harrowing escape from the _Serena. _

Such a stupid mistake. It was rare that Dooku got in his own way like that. Anakin's appearance in his life must have rattled him more than he knew.

A period of meditation, fitful and unfulfilling, had to suffice for rest. At 0200 hours on the second day after his Master commanded him to Coruscant, Darth Tyranus met the Lord of the Galaxy (Sidious was nothing if not assured of his own destiny) in yet another unused building somewhere in the depths of the City-planet, as ordered, and handed over the precious plans for a vast planet-killing weapon that the former Jedi privately referred to as the "Death Star."

The subsequent conversation was brief, but it put an immediate end to Dooku's philosophical musings.

"We are beginning the war against the Republic, Master?" Dooku repeated carefully, feigning what he hoped was just the right tone of unconcern. "So soon? Have the Jedi discovered their Clone Army, then?"

Sidious peered at him intently from under his cowl. His eyes had taken on the yellow tinge that showed him for what he truly was.

Dooku wondered why his own eyes had never changed.

"Not yet, but I foresee that they will very soon. In fact, the discovery already may have been set in motion."

"How, Master?" With an effort, Dooku kept his features bland. What was Sidious witholding?

"You will see."

A non-answer. A sure sign that he did not have his Master's full confidence. _Dangerous._

Darth Sidious began walking. Dooku had to follow. They paced in silence for a while until Dooku, burning with questions he dared not ask lest he look even more the fool, attempted to regain his footing on common ground by offering an assessment.

"From a strategic point of view, it hardly seems worthwhile making a first strike in the Outer Rim. None of the planets there have Galaxy-class armaments, much less diplomatic representation in the Capitol. Even if we reduced a whole planet to dust, I cannot imagine the Senate responding with a full-scale war effort. Without a grand army, they are not prepared."

Sidious stopped abruptly. "It is not the Senate's response that matters at this juncture." Stabbing the air with a knotted finger to emphasize each word, he hissed, _"It is that of the Jedi."_

Dooku swallowed. The original grand plan, astounding in its scope and boldness, had been to bring the Galaxy to its knees through division and civil war, only to heal it again through the unification of power. In _that_ plan, the Jedi Order would first be used as a tool for change, then discarded when its usefulness was over. _That_ was the plan Dooku had signed onto, and worked so hard for all these years: the end of Democracy with its inevitable mediocrity and inefficiency. The end – Force help him - of the Jedi Order, resulting in the ascendance of consistent, visionary leadership with the power to bring that vision to fruition.

But this ... Sidious was changing the plans and had not seen fit to apprise him. A bad feeling began to gather somewhere below Dooku's solar plexus. To cover his unease, he asked, "Do you have a time frame in mind?"

Sidious began pacing again. "Soon. Very soon. I want you and your forces in position and in readiness for my signal."

"Very well." Dooku breathed a little more easily. Perhaps he would have a little time after all to figure out what Sidious was up to. Perhaps he would even have time to contact Anakin...

"Do you have a specific planet in mind, or would you like me to..."

"Tatooine," Sidious snapped. "I want you to destroy Tatooine."

One morning (at the precise moment when Anakin's eyes closed in the Mos Eisley medicenter, as a matter of fact) the Jedi woke up. This time, when Kenobi opened his eyes, he was fully present.

He greeted his current minders, the surprised Biggs brothers, cheerfully, stretched mightily, and launched into a series of impossible-looking calisthenics that left the boys staring in open-mouthed disbelief. They were still staring when the cave's accustomed silence was broken by loud voices and the sound of running feet in the rocky corridor just beyond. The commotion broke their trance.

"Something's up," the eldest brother said, standing up and brushing off his clothes. "They sound excited."

The Jedi also came to rest, sweat-soaked, but for once looking wide-awake and energized. "I expect they are here to tell you that Anakin has returned to Tatooine," he said casually, kneeling by the pool for a drink of water.

Again the brothers stared at him, open-mouthed. "Wait ... Anakin's h-here?" the younger one stammered.

"Nobody told us," the older brother said sharply.

Solly burst into the cave and jogged up to them, followed by a few others. "Guess what! Anakin's back!"

"We heard," the older brother said, avoiding looking at Obi-Wan, who remained serenely expressionless.

"He's in town at the medicenter with Shmi and everyone!"

This time, the Jedi reacted. "With everyone? With whom, exactly?"

Solly shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other, looking at the Biggs bothers for approval. The older brother shrugged. It wasn't as if they had any authority over the Jedi. Kenobi stared at Solly, silently demanding an answer.

"Um... a bunch of people," the older man said uncomfortably. "His family, that Senator person... I mean, everyone's there. Everyone!"

The Jedi muttered something unintelligible under his breath that sounded almost like a curse. The younger Biggs brother studied him with interest.

"Anakin's hurt?" the older brother demanded to know.

"They say he's hurt bad, but they're fixin' him up. Remy's inside with him."

"Well," Kenobi announced crisply into the anxious silence that followed, "I'm going to wash. "When Remy arrives, please tell him that I need to speak with him."

"Remy isn't coming here," Solly said. "He's stayin' in town with Anakin."

"Oh, he _will _come here," the Jedi insisted, as confidently as if he were relaying a message. "I will wait."

The desert men scowled in unison, not sure how to respond. Kenobi nodded politely to the group and left the water cave for the first time in days.

The younger Biggs turned to his older brother. "Were we supposed to go with him? I mean, were we supposed to let him just go off by himself like that?"

The older brother snorted. "What're we supposed to do, climb into the shower with him?"

The younger brother blushed; the closest he would ever get to expressing anger. "No, but what if he just takes off ..."

"You think you could stop him if he did, little bro?"

The younger Briggs brother dropped his eyes and rubbed his nose. "No."

"Then leave him be. Anyway, he said he's gonna wait for Remy. Here... " He squatted down and dumped a fistful of tri-stones on the rocky cave floor in front of his knees. "Your turn to start. Hey, Solly, you want to play?"

"No way, we're going to town to see Anakin. Don't you want to come?"

The elder Biggs brother hesitated. It was the younger brother who spoke up, surprising everyone.

"We're staying with the Jedi like we were told. Make sure you leave enough people here to secure the labs."

Solly grinned. "Will do. Good thinking, young Biggs!"

The elder Biggs brother just glared and resigned himself to another interminable wait.

"Captain Typho."

The familiar voice crackling over the comm. was barely loud enough to be heard by others, but as a precaution, the Captain quickly muted the device and slipped it into his rather piratical-looking jacket. If his companions at the sabaac table had overheard the title with which he had been addressed, they knew better than to show it. Pirates and scoundrels knew that misplaced curiosity could get a man killed. But it was inconvenient nonetheless.

For effect, Captain Typho muttered a foul curse he had picked up in Tatooine's back alleys, ignoring the bad taste it left in his mouth. "Business," he said crisply. "Gotta go." Remembering to scoop up every last chipped nugget of his winnings (no self-respecting pirate or scoundrel would leave without them), he slipped out of the cantina and into the back alley. Never very well traveled, the narrow byway seemed emptier than usual. In a shadowed corner well away from the cantina, the Captain felt isolated enough to dig out the comm.

"Kenobi?" he muttered. "Is that you? Are you all right?"

"There you are, Captain. I am well, but far from town. I have but a moment, and this signal is not secure. Listen ..."

The same foul curse escaped the Naboo Captain's lips in a harsh whisper when the Jedi had finished speaking. This time it was heartfelt, and seemed quite natural.

"I'll take care of it."

"I know you will."

Kenobi signed off. Captain Typho was already on the move when he tuned the comm. to a heavily encrypted channel and repeated the Jedi's message word for word.

Judging by the slant of the light that fell on the mud floor of the medicenter's roughly constructed waiting room, it was well into the afternoon before Dax finally appeared in the doorway.

The Senator was the first to see her, and jumped to her feet. "How is he, Dax?" She spoke calmly, but the plea in her eyes was plain to see.

Fighting weariness, Dax surveyed the faces that ringed her. Only the mother, the blind one, remained with her head lowered, clasping her hands in her lap. Remy stood away from the rest by the far door, the one that led outside, with his arms crossed tightly over his chest and a fierce expression on his face. Dax knew him well enough to see that he was desperately worried. She also knew that he was the only reason there was space to breathe in the waiting room. Judging from the clamor outside, every soul in Mos Eisley was gathered near the medicenter, trying to get in to see Anakin. Word traveled fast in this place.

"Well, now, maybe I'm a genius. Or this equipment is the best in the Galaxy. Or more likely, this guy is as tough and stubborn as that Jedi." Dax ran a hand back and forth over her cropped hair. "Maybe tougher." Boy, she was tired. "By all the laws of chemistry and biology, he has no right to that arm. It oughtta be gone. But he's keepin' it."

The woman Shmi smiled into her lap. The Senator, rigid with repressed tension, let out a quiet breath. It was tough old Remy who let out a loud whoop.

"Is he awake?" The Senator asked quickly. "May I ... may _we_ see him?"

Dax stifled a yawn. "There's nothin' to see, Senator. He's out cold, which is exactly where I want him. He should stay out until tomorrow morning. Best to come back then." She stretched wearily, wincing when her back creaked. "Once he's awake, he's all yours."

A young man (the brother, she'd been told) stepped forward. "What about Shmi? We were told that you were ready to see her."

Of course. She'd nearly forgotten. Dax turned to the blind woman and addressed her directly. "I know I sent a message saying that I was ready to have a look at you, Ma'am, but to be honest, I'm kinda worn out right now, and I'm not comfortable enough with this equipment yet to work on more than one person at a time. Can you come back tomorrow? He should be ready to move then."

The woman nodded. "Anakin is ... more important..."

A commotion erupted outside the waiting room. Remy stepped toward the door, his hand already on his blaster, only to be forced back a step when the rustic door to the hallway swung open.

"What the blazes? How did you people get in here?" he roared. "I left strict orders..."

Three heavily cloaked people pushed past him, filling the small waiting room to capacity and pushing Remy back even further.

Eirtaé lowered her deep green hood and curtsied elaborately to the Senator. The courtly gesture, incongruous on Tatooine, so bewildered the desert man that it stifled his tirade mid-rant. Dax laughed quietly to herself. Those Naboo sure knew how to make an entrance. The other two had to be the kids, although they chose to remain cloaked. Must be stifling.

"Eirtaé. There you are." The Senator didn't sound particularly happy to see her devoted companion.

"We heard you were here, Senator." The Handmaiden's voice also had a discernable edge of displeasure. "It was such a surprise. We expected to find you on the farm, _as we agreed."_

The Senator's color was high (a remarkable difference from only a few days before, Dax noted.) Raising her chin, she ignored her Handmaiden and addressed Dax. "I prefer to remain here," she said in a tone that indicated her decision was not open to debate. "Owen, if you wouldn't mind taking Shmi back to the farm..."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," Eirtaé snapped. Dax had never heard such an imperious tone come out of the woman's mouth. It was almost as if the Handmaiden was in charge, and the Senator had to do what she said. Apparently, a few things had changed while Dax was in town working on the medicenter.

"We will discuss this later," Padmé said in a low voice that sounded almost dangerous.

Huh. In their own, well-bred, upper-class way, they were really going at it. Dax, the Lars men, and even Remy looked on in fascination. The Handmaiden looked around as if she finally realized that they were making a scene. Her lips compressed, and she drew the Senator into the only empty corner, where the discussion continued in barely audible whispers.

Remy sidled over to Dax. "Who are these people?" he muttered.

"The one who wants to stay is Senator Amidala. The others are in charge of her security, I guess," she said quietly.

"Nobody stays here but me," Remy murmured back. "Tell them. I want Anakin left in peace."

Dax looked at him sideways. She didn't see any reason to disagree with him. Her patient would need someone like Remy around when he woke up; somebody solid who'd give him some space, instead of all those worried people fussing over him. The poor kid had been pretty roughed up, and whatever those chemicals were in his system (only the droid lab knew for sure), they sure weren't going away quietly. "OK. But they won't take kindly to you stayin.'"

Remy grinned faintly. "I'll go out with 'em. Gotta clear a path, anyway. The crowd's really building. Just let me back in through the back."

"Sure thing." Dax raised her voice loud enough to be heard on a battlefield. "All right, people listen up." That got everyone's attention, even the feuding Naboo in the corner. "Everybody out! Nobody stays. _And,_ nobody comes back here until tomorrow morning. My patient, my orders. Now scoot!"

There was a good deal of protesting and muttering and shuffling around after her announcement, but eventually, they scooted. Every last one of them. Remy left last, with a private wink for Dax, who, after another quick check on her sleeping patient, dutifully made her way to the small loader bay at back of the facility where there was another door. Young Skywalker was stable, and seemed to be on the mend. It would be nice to have someone else watching over him for a while. Maybe she'd even be able to grab some rack time...

Alone in the MedLab, Anakin _was_ being watched. Steadily.

Upon his return to the _Serena _after his disturbing meeting with Darth Sidious_,_ Dooku had once again (almost compulsively, although he wouldn't have admitted it to himself) checked the feeds from the medical equipment he had sent to Tatooine. Strangely, with all the work that faced him beginning a galaxy-wide war, it was Anakin who was uppermost in his thoughts.

Anakin. His potential. His _planet. _

_Sidious knows. He must know. Why else would he choose that insignificant rock to begin his grand plan?_

At last, Dooku's forethought was rewarded. The MedLab had finally been activated and there was someone lying under the MedLab's canopy, clearly unconscious. He enlarged the image.

Anakin. It was Anakin! Surely he hadn't been that badly injured ... had he? Dooku checked the lab results by remote feed.

The results were ugly. Where in the seven hells had he come in contact with the sarconex toxin? Probably on Geonosis. Most likely, Anakin hadn't taken sufficient time with his self-healing, and had carelessly decided that attentiveness to his own wounds was superfluous. Ah, the arrogance of the young. They always believed themselves to be immortal.

He sat quietly for a long time, contemplating the sleeping face in his viewscreen. The face of his hope and his future. Anakin Skywalker, Padawan of Obi-Wan Kenobi and protégée of Qui-Gon Jinn, trained by Sar Dooku...

_Destiny is destiny. No matter what choices we think we are making. _The choice lay not in the path, but in the willingness to tread it.

Sar Dooku had never been a coward, but in all his life, he had never experienced such fear.

_No matter what I do, once I attack Tatooine, he will see me as just another betrayer, like the Jedi. _

For a long time, the minion of Darth Sidious sat in the semi-darkness on his beautiful, silent ship, contemplating the face of the man he had come to think of as his progeny. He did what he did best: he thought deeply and planned comprehensively, all the while burning with righteous anger in the depths of his soul.

Under the droid canopy, Anakin moaned in his sleep.

"How dare you challenge me like that?" Padmé hissed to her Chief Handmaiden and (she thought irritably) jailer. "Openly? In public?"

"Everything I do, I do for you. You know that."

Eirtaé was implacable in her refusal to apologize. Her pale, oval face with its high cheekbones and wide, smooth forehead showed so little emotion that Padmé, who could feel the heat blazing in her own face, wanted to slap her.

"I don't know anything of the kind! I'm not sure I can trust you after this." It hurt, but it had to be said. Her anger hurt even more. Eirtaé had turned on her. Every moment she was being taken further away from the medicenter and from Anakin.

"There are a great many things you don't know, Padmé."

Eirtaé had arranged things so that she and Padmé traveled back to the remote moisture farm alone a single transport, guarded from in front and behind, so that they could speak privately. It was only on such rare occasions that they addressed one another as equals, as they had as schoolgirls.

"Only because you have kept everything from me!"

"I keep things from you because you don't want to know! Be honest, Padmé. From the moment you decided to come to Tatooine to meet Anakin Skywalker, you have all but ignored every other aspect of your life. _ We_ are the ones who have kept up with your workload from the Senate. _We_ are the ones who have put our lives on the line to ensure your safety and to indulge your whims. _We_ are the ones who have worked and struggled to manage the consequences of your impetuous actions."

Truth can cut sharply, especially when delivered unvarnished and straight to the heart. Eirtaé's scalpel opened up the private core where Padmé had stored all of her doubts and insecurities. Quietly, they began to bleed out.

"You are right," she murmured, all the fight gone out of her. And then, even more quietly, "I am unworthy."

Eirtaé did not bother to politely disagree. "The Jedi don't seem to think so. They have invested enormous resources and assigned one of their finest Knights to ensure your safety. The least you can do is to cooperate by remaining where we ask you to."

"How is Obi-Wan?" Padmé asked in a small voice.

"How kind of you to ask at last. He is well, but hidden, at his own request, in an unknown location. We don't know why he felt that was necessary. When he got hurt, he delegated the responsibility for your security to me. In a sense, we, your staff, are now working on behalf of the Jedi Order, as well as carrying out our responsibilities as a Naboo. Are you still not curious?"

"I don't know what to think."

"Neither did we, so we began a little investigation of our own. So far, we have learned that there is a covert military presence here on Tatooine. They have been here for some time, and as far as we can tell, at the moment they are only observers. But they are looking at absolutely everything that goes on here, including the black market economy. We guess them to be attached to the Senate security forces." Eirtaé waited to see whether the information would evoke a response from Padmé. When it didn't, she added, a little more sharply, "The operatives' off-planet communications trebled just after your Skywalker returned to Tatooine. It is as if they have a particular interest in him. We would very much like to know why. If it turns out that there is a connection, it might be expedient to get you off the planet, and soon."

The old Padmé, the Queen and warrior, would have leaped on this information, analyzing, arguing, and demanding to know more. This one – this withdrawn, inward Padmé – only seemed to retreat further into herself, becoming, if possible, even smaller.

Eirtaé sighed.

"It should have been you," Padmé murmured after a long time.

"What are you talking about?"

"You should have become Queen, not me. There were so few votes between us in that election."

For a moment, Eirtaé's hands clenched in her lap, but just as quickly they relaxed and opened, coming gracefully to rest, palms upon, on her thighs.

"I have long since accepted my destiny, Padmé. What I need now is for you to accept yours. You _are_ Amidala, with all that entails. There is no going back. And for what it's worth, you have been a great ... extraordinary... Queen and Senator."

_Have been..._

Padmé turned her face away, and spent the rest of the journey looking out over the featureless wastes. Her only response, unseen by Eirtaé, was an offering to the desert; a tiny, salty drop of moisture that slid down her cheek into the cloth of her garment, and disappeared.

The MedLab was so quiet at night that Remy had a hard time staying awake. The few audible signals were faint and melodious, probably in deference to sleeping patients. The lights were dim. The helper droids floated about silently on their business. The only place to sit was a small repulsor stool. After the third time nearly falling off it because he'd dozed off, Remy finally gave himself permission to take a little nap. Anakin was sleeping quietly. The tumult outside the medicenter had long since died down.

If it were not for the constant movements of the droids, Remy would have wrapped himself in his cloak right there on the floor next to Anakin. Instead, he dragged a proper seat – one with a back and arms – from the nearby waiting room to a corner just outside the MedLab door.

The moment he sat down, he was fast asleep. He slept so deeply that he didn't see the patient open his eyes and stare for a long time at the base of the canopy that arched over him. He didn't hear the droids begin to murmur, or see them cluster around the patient.

He didn't see the patient pull himself to a sitting position, reach around the canopy and find, with sensitive fingers, controls intended for the medic; nor did he note the sudden silence and stillness when the droids stopped functioning.

He didn't see the lights in the MedLab grow brighter, or the patient swing his legs over the side of the platform and then grow still, as if waiting for the life to return to his limbs. He certainly didn't see the patient ease himself off the platform and stumble around the MedLab several times as if he was looking for something; nor did he see him pounce on an object as if it had been found.

Outside the MedLab, anyone not sprawled out asleep on the ground or propped up against a wall or lying across another person might have seen light behind the narrow windows, and a shadow moving back and forth until nearly dawn. But perhaps no one saw, because no one came inside, and Remy slept soundly until the first light of morning touched his face.

What he _did _see when he stumbled back into the MedLab was Anakin slumped on the floor against a gleaming metal cabinet, surrounded by an open tool box and a veritable litter of circuits, machine parts and other unidentifiable objects.

"Anakin! You're awake!"

Anakin opened his bloodshot eyes. "Remy, " he said, putting such warmth into the single word that it raised a lump in the older man's throat.

"What is all this?"

"Truth be told, I'm not exactly sure about a lot of it. Its every part I could find that isn't directly needed for the medical functioning."

"You went through all this? It took a team of ... well, just about everybody... nearly a week just to figure out how to put it all together."

Anakin yawned. "I fixed a few things that weren't right. But I didn't really give it a thorough going-over."

Remy poked the nearest incomprehensible piece of metal with his toe. "What's this?"

"I'm not sure. That one looks like a comm. relay, but a really sophisticated one. And this..." Anakin bent over to pick up a tiny module that lay near his knee... "Believe it or not, this is a power source. Amazing. Never seen one like it. But as far as I can tell, it's completely unrelated to the medical functions or the backup."

Remy squatted down, staring at the collection of objects. "So what're you thinking? Bugs?"

"I wouldn't be surprised." Anakin leaned his head back against the wall wearily. "What I'm thinking is that I've been a complete fool."

"You want to tell me about it?"

"Yes. But not this minute." With a visible effort, Anakin folded his legs under him and stood up. "Let's take these back to the cave. I'll need the labs to figure them out."

Remy looked him over. "You don't look so good."

"I've been better. Been a lot worse, too. I'll be all right." Despite his confident words, Anakin swayed a little, and grasped the platform to steady himself."

"I shouldn't let you. Dax'll kill me."

"Aww, c'mon, Remy. You scared of a lady medic?"

"She's tougher than you think." Remy was still studying Anakin. "Can you even walk?"

Anakin grinned crookedly. "I was hoping we could take a transport. It's a long way."

"Wiseass," Remy said fondly, giving in. "You got my message about Kenobi?"

Anakin nodded curtly.

"Well, he's at the cave. I stashed him there when he got hurt, and now he won't leave until he sees you. You'd better talk to him."

Anakin began picking up the results of his night's work. "Kenobi got hurt? That must have been something to see."

"It was."

"You want to tell me about it?"

"Yes," Remy deadpanned. "But not this minute."

Anakin smiled faintly. "Like it or not, I think I have to talk to him. Let's just go now and get it over and done. I want to get back to ... um ... the farm."

Remy had a million questions, but he didn't ask them. Instead he pushed Anakin gently back onto the platform while he finished picking up the mess, carefully stowing every tiny piece in a bag. "This medical ... thing... is working, right? I mean, it worked for you? Your mother is supposed to come here tomorrow to see if Dax can do anything to help her..."

"No! I don't want this machine touching her!"

Remy looked up. "Anakin, what is it? I thought you sent it for her?"

Anakin looked around the room, but his eyes seemed unfocused, as if he was actually seeing something else. "Don't let her. Please. I need to check it over first."

"Anakin, we _have _checked it out, over and over again. It sure worked for you. Your mother has waited so long... and not just your mother, there are hundreds of people waiting every day to be treated..."

"Not yet!" Anakin snapped. "One more night. That's all I need."

"OK, OK. I promise," Remy soothed him.

Anakin started to get to his feet.

"Here, let me help. We'll need to sneak out the back. The whole town's out there waiting to jump all over you." Before Anakin could stop him, Remy unwittingly grasped the arm that had been the focus of all Dax's work.

After a sharp intake of breath, Anakin relaxed. "I guess this equipment does work after all. Feels like a brand new arm. But I still want to take the whole system apart and put it back together before it touches Mom, or anybody else."

Together they made their way slowly to the back of the medicenter. The huge container in which the MedLab components had first arrived was still sitting there. Remy had found it a perfect place to stash his armored speeder. He got Anakin settled and as a precaution, threw an old blanket over him to hide his face from any curious onlookers.

By the time the speeder reached the edge of town, the blanket was snoring gently.

Neither man noticed the tracking device that a dark man with an eyepatch had left underneath Remy's vehicle. The man was still there by the medicenter, pretending to be asleep like so many others who ringed it. As soon as Remy's big armored transport was out of sight, the dark man reached for his comm.

"He's on the move with Skywalker," he murmured. "Stay at least a league behind him. Don't be seen, whatever you do."

"Don't worry, Captain. We know how to do this. Panaka out."

The next time Dooku checked the feed from the MedDroid, the link remained as dead as empty space. There was nothing, not even static. The connection was gone.

Immediately he returned to the bridge, where he reset the _Serena's_ course. Initially she had been on a fast course for Geonosis, where he had planned to gather his forces. Instead, he set a slow course for Tatooine.

He needed more time to think.


	19. Chapter 18 Kingpin

**Chapter 18. Kingpin**

The fierce blue of the desert sky pressed down like a weight on the bright sands of the wastes. There was no respite from the searing heat of midday, not even in the illusive shadows cast by thesoaring dunes. Skin and lungs burned, even inside the covered and cooled speeder. Awake at last, Anakin emerged from his blanket coughing and soaked in sweat.

"Here. Drink this." Remy passed over a flask.

Anakin pressed it to his lips, and then coughed again, in surprise. "It's ice cold! How did you ..."

"Corellian freighter with a serious hyperdrive burnout. They were drifting in nearspace, signaling like crazy. We picked them up and brought them back for repairs. They left here a lot lighter. These flasks were part of their cargo."

"You robbed them?" Precious drops of cold water fell on Anakin's hand. He licked them off before they could evaporate, taking the sweat-salt in his stride.

"No." Remy grinned. "Just charged them the going rate for emergency repairs when there's nobody else around for a couple of star systems or so."

Anakin took another long, deep drink before handing the flask back to Remy.

"That is _so_ good."

"Our water, Corellian cooler flask. It's simple technology, but we've got nothing like that here." He glanced at Anakin. "People must live well in the Core."

"You have no idea." Anakin rubbed his eyes. "Where are we?"

"Not far from the ridge. I came around the long way. Seems we're being followed, so I came through the wastes where there's no hiding to flush 'em out." He jerked a thumb backwards. "They're about half a league back."

Anakin twisted around to see. Remy turned the speeder's nose sharply toward the nearest dune, heading straight up. From the top, the black dot of the other speeder was clearly visible.

"That speeder doesn't have enough heat shielding. They must be miserable."

"Baking."

Anakin sighed and settled back into his seat. "Who would be so dumb?"

"Offworlders."

Remy's big speeder charged down the other side of the dune, passing briefly into shadow before returning to the searing light.

"Lot of traffic out this way lately," Anakin observed.

"So I've noticed. And it all seems to be about you."

Anakin slid down in his seat, as if he could somehow make himself smaller. "I don't know why."

"Maybe Kenobi does."

Anakin, of course, did not answer. He never answered when the topic of Kenobi came up. Remy stared straight out at the wastes, marking time, but his comment hung stubbornly between them, demanding further discussion. When the horizon ahead began to sprout teeth, indicating that the ridge was not far away and that he would not have Anakin's undivided attention for very much longer, Remy began to talk. He didn't often tell stories, so when he began to describe the Jedi Knight's arrival on Tatooine and his many epic deeds, Anakin listened. He listened hard, only interrupting once.

"Popper and Lupie were at the MediCenter the whole time I was there? I didn't know ..."

"Kit was probably there, too. He stays with Lupie. Popper's ok, he's about ready to go home, but Lupie's still in bad shape. He's one of the people waiting for a chance at that fancy medical equipment." He glanced at Anakin. "Right after your mother, of course."

A muscle in Anakin's jaw twitched. "All right. I'll finish what I need to do there tonight."

"When you're up to it." Satisfied that Anakin finally understood how important it was for everyone to have that facility up and working, Remy went on to describe the "night of miracles" during which the MediCenter had been built, stinting nothing when it came to describing Kenobi's role in it, his sacrifice, and his fall.

"Dax said he needed time and privacy to heal, so I took him to the cave. It was the least we could do for him."

The ridge had risen high in front of them during Remy's tale; in place of bright sand, red and gray rock absorbed some of the sun's glare. Anakin stared straight ahead. In the gentler light, his eyes retained the harsh blue of the desert sky.

"He wants something," he said at last.

"Whatever he's here for, we owe him a lot," Remy insisted. "He's proven over and over that we can trust him."

"For that kind of investment, he must want it pretty badly."

Remy took a breath as if he was about to say something, but then decided against it and busied himself with navigating the ridgeline.

"Just say it," Anakin demanded.

Remy's fists tightened on the speeder's controls. "What the hell happened between you two? He talks about you with all kinds of respect. You act like he's an old enemy."

Anakin snorted. "That just about sums it up."

"How do you mean?" Remy didn't take his eyes off the controls. Banking the big speeder into the slim opening in the rocks was never an easy maneuver.

"In my experience, Kenobi does whatever is necessary to get the job done. No matter what the job is. No matter what the cost. The job – the mission – is the only thing he cares about. Don't let him fool you."

The sudden darkness of the cave silenced both of them until Remy brought the speeder gently to rest on an almost invisible landing platform. He powered down the engines and with them, the lights. Anakin didn't make a move to get out of the speeder.

"What did he do to you, Anakin?"

In the dark, Remy heard Anakin sigh. "He took away my dreams. My future. Like they were nothing. I never was a Jedi, you know. They kicked me out – Kenobi did – before I could learn what I needed to. He acts on orders, Remy. Only on orders. Nothing else matters to him. I don't trust him. Neither should you."

Remy didn't reply. There wasn't anything to be said.

Anakin remained where he was.

"We gonna do this, or what?" Remy finally prompted him. The speeder was getting stuffy.

Anakin's seat creaked, and the heavy bubble top opened, letting in the cool earth-smell of the cave. Remy sucked in a good big lungful of it. Kenobi or no, it was good to be home.

"Don't let anybody use this speeder," Anakin said, getting out. "I'm going to need it soon."

"OK."

They didn't need lights to find their way to the inner entrance. Just before Remy pushed the door open, he reached out in the dark to clasp Anakin's shoulder, in much the same way he had first grasped an overwhelmed boy's shoulder years before, on a bloodstained ridge not unlike this one.

"For what it's worth," he said roughly, "I'm glad they gave you back to us. If the Jedi had kept you, I'd still be a slave. All of us would. We'd still be living and dying by the Hutt's whims, wiping up their shit, and hoping for their crumbs."

Anakin briefly grasped the hand that lay so warmly on his shoulder. "Thank you, Remy. I owe you. For everything."

"You owe nothing," the big desert man rasped, and pushed open the door. "The debt is ours, now and always."

They walked in companionable silence through dimly lit corridors (Anakin ran his fingers along the familiar rock walls) until they arrived in the largest cavern, the one with the stairs and various levels. It was surprisingly empty. Remy explained that everyone who could be spared had gone into town to see Anakin.

"Is that why you helped me escape from the MediCenter? To avoid the crush?"

"I figured once you'd decided to leave, you'd go whether I agreed or not. If I went along with it, at least you wouldn't get mobbed, and I could keep an eye on you."

"Good call." Anakin flashed him a half-smile. "I don't think I'm ready for a crowd just yet."

Remy looked around. I don't know where Kenobi is. Stay here, and I'll look for him ..."

But Anakin had begun to walk in the direction of the smallest and most-used room in the cave complex. "He's in the kitchen."

Remy followed, wondering what made Anakin so certain. "They guys tell me he spends all of his time in the water cave. He might be there..."

Anakin kept walking. "He isn't."

Remy shrugged, and followed. What else could he do?

The 'kitchen' was small because it had been built as an afterthought back when the cave was being outfitted. Anakin had only been interested in setting up the labs and the water cave. It was his companions, craving hot food and a place to take a break, who had painstakingly chiseled out and expanded a leftover space underneath the stairs, dragged into it some galley fittings salvaged from captured spaceships, added some tables and stools, and made sure there was a regular supply of fuel, water and food. Everybody who had official business in the cave spent spare moments in the kitchen enjoying the social life, and not minding the cramped quarters. Someone was always cooking something, and there was always enough to share.

The savory smell of food filled the small space. Sitting around one table, passing bowls back and forth and eating heartily sat four people: the Biggs brothers, the old farmer Solly, and Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jedi Knight.

Anakin lingered in the entryway, watching the scene with Remy looking over his shoulder. Kenobi was laughing at something Solly had said, taking huge bites of pan bread and stew, and appearing not to notice the newcomers. He looked different than Anakin remembered him, older, and he had grown a tidy beard.

Remy clearly didn't find the scene strange, but Anakin looked at it and wondered what game Kenobi was playing. The Jedi Knight surely had sensed him coming leagues away, and yet here he was, pretending not to see, pretending to be one of the guys...

The eldest Biggs brother saw Anakin first, and leaped to his feet, nearly knocking over his stool.

"Anakin!" he yelled joyfully, charging toward him. The others followed suit, and for a few moments, there was a happy melee of hugs, greetings, and slaps on the back. Kenobi remained seated at the table, watching, but not inserting himself into the proceedings. Waiting. (_For what?_ Anakin wondered, watching him out of the corner of his eye. _An introduction?)_

When the tumult had died down and Anakin and Remy had been persuaded to take places at the table, Kenobi nodded politely to them and continued eating. The others began to notice the strained silence between Anakin and the Jedi, and their conversation died away.

"Well, look who's here," Anakin said at last. "I don't think I've ever seen you eat with such an appetite."

"I don't think I've ever had such an appetite," Kenobi responded pleasantly. "You look as if you could use some, too. May I offer you some of your own hospitality?"

"Mine?" Anakin shook his head. "This isn't my doing. None of this would function if it were just up to me."

"Not true," Remy mumbled.

"No way!" Solly chimed in.

"Uh-uh," the Biggs Brothers added in unison.

"I understand," Obi-Wan said, having chewed and swallowed a substantial bite, "that you are the inspiration and the glue. Without you, there would be nothing around which to come together. In your absence, the whole organization grows looser, and more likely to pull apart." He shoved a plate of steaming pan bread toward Anakin. "Welcome back, by the way."

Anakin scowled at him intently, as if trying to solve a puzzle. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

"_You _are welcoming _me_ ...? I can't say that this is a conversation I ever expected to have with you."

"Nor I," Obi-Wan conceded, nodding toward a large pot on the small galley cooker. "Do have some stew. Young Eli Biggs made it. It is delicious." He looked Anakin up and down. "You need the protein. Your color isn't good."

The younger Biggs brother blushed at the Jedi's compliment, but quickly paled again when Anakin growled, "That's more like what I would expect from you."

Obi-Wan put down his spoon. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to lecture. My comment was only meant as an expression of concern."

"Why?" Anakin snapped, startling the desert men around the table.

"I have always been concerned about you, Anakin," Obi-Wan said quietly.

Anakin visibly bit back a response, remembering, perhaps, that he and his former mentor were not alone, and that whatever had passed between them was something he had kept private even from those closest to him.

Remy used the ensuing awkward silence to fill a plate for Anakin, and watched Anakin stare at it, then slowly began to pick at the younger Biggs brother's fragrant stew. While Anakin and the Jedi ate in silence, no one else spoke. It was as if the air around the table belonged only to those two, and if they chose not to use it for conversation, no one else would, either.

Remy finally broke the spell. Having quickly finished his meal without another word being said, he stood up and signaled to the others that they should do the same.

"Come on, boys. We're about to have visitors."

Young Eli Biggs began to collect the empty dishes, but Remy stopped him. "Not now. You can do that later."

Reluctantly, Solly and the Biggs brothers followed Remy out of the kitchen, leaving Anakin and Obi-Wan alone with the leavings of the others' meals. Neither one took notice of the mess.

The footsteps in the corridor had died away when Anakin finally asked, "What do you want from me, Kenobi? Why are you really here?"

Obi-Wan winced. "Are we such strangers, then?"

"You saw to that."

Obi-Wan took a slow breath before replying. "Can I be honest with you? I would like to be."

Anakin shrugged.

"I am beginning to think that there was a great deal more to the Council's decision to sever you from the Order than was initially apparent. They never explained it to my satisfaction at the time, or any time after." He looked intently at Anakin, as if making sure that he was truly listening. "Once you left, they never permitted me to come near you again. Until now."

Anakin _was_ listening. He just might have heard different things than Obi-Wan had intended.

"So you dumped me without even knowing why?"

"It was the decision of the Council, Anakin. I had no choice."

Anakin snorted. "I will ask again. Why are you here now?"

"The Council did not initiate this visit. Padmé did that all by herself. I suspect that no power in the Galaxy could have stopped her had they not agreed."

Noting Anakin's brief, unguarded look of bafflement, he added, "I believe I was the cause of her sudden decision. Until we spoke, she had not been aware of your... situation. She thought that you were safely in the Temple, studying to be a Jedi. But when she learned of your fate, and approached the Council with her proposal to hide here, they not only agreed but provided transport and ... well... me."

"As her protection."

"Yes."

"Because someone ... was ... _is ... _trying to kill her."

"Precisely."

"Do you know who?"

"No."

"I see." Anakin's face registered nothing – so much so that Obi-Wan began to suspect there was _something _behind all that nothing. Was it possible that Anakin was somehow – however incongruous it might seem – connected with the attempt on Padmé's life? However logically Obi-Wan tried to reason it out, his mind rebelled at the thought.

"And when you determine that the danger has passed?" Anakin was saying. "What then?"

"I must return the Senator to Coruscant. She has pressing duties there."

"What if she doesn't want to go?"

Obi-Wan smiled fleetingly. "Senator Amidala is a very determined woman, but I cannot imagine her choosing to shirk her duties any longer than absolutely necessary."

Anakin looked down at his hands. "I see," he said again, too evenly by far. "And yet, despite your mission, I find you here, rather than guarding Padmé. For the third time – what do you, or what does the Jedi Council – want from me? Since you're being _honest_."

Obi wan leaned back in his sturdy chair and rubbed his beard thoughtfully. "That is a good question. I wish I knew the answer. I am not certain that the Council knows the answer either. But they consider you important, so important that they want to know everything about you, what you are doing, and with whom you associate. More to the point, perhaps, they are concerned about who might seek you out. They sense ... we all sense ... that you somehow stand at the center of future events. "

"They... consider me... to be... important," Anakin repeated slowly, his expression becoming less neutral with each word.

"Yes."

"_Important!"_ Anakin repeated passionately. "Important enough to discard?"

"Or to safeguard," Obi-Wan suggested quietly. He did not look away in the face of Anakin's scorching stare.

"_Safeguard_? In _this_ place?" Unable to contain himself, Anakin pushed himself to his feet. "Do you have the _slightest_ idea what life has been like here for the past ten years?"

"I do, actually. I learned about your history – about Tatooine's – only recently, from Padmé. Your survival has been remarkable, as have your actions on behalf of your people. _You_ are remarkable."

Anakin looked away. Gripping the back of the stool he had abandoned, he glared at the cooker on the far wall as if he could make the pots on it boil with his gaze. Two of them shivered under the onslaught until their lids slid off, one after the other, with sharp clangs. Obi-Wan watched him intently.

"A lot of people have wanted me dead over the years, and still do," Anakin said grimly. "My name is well known here, and probably in all the places where the Hutt fled. Tatooine is the furthest thing from safe, but the Jedi Council has never cared. For the last time: _What do they want with me now, after all this time_?"

"The Force is strong with you," Obi-Wan observed, studying the cooking pots with a searching look in his eyes.

Anakin lost his grip on the chair. The same moment that it escaped his white-knuckled grasp to hurl itself at Obi-Wan with projectile speed, the dishes on the table exploded into a clumsy imitation of a firework display and the cooking pots leaped up to the high rock ceiling, covering it with sticky goo.

Obi-Wan's green lightsaber sliced the hapless chair into pieces before it connected with his head, but blood was already running into his eyes from the plates' metal shards. He blinked only once, but in that tiny interval, his green blade encountered resistance.

A hiss... a whine...

... a shaft of blue.

He looked up.

Anakin also had blood on his face, dripping from a cut on his eyebrow. His hands gripped the blue lightsaber's hilt as if he had been born holding it. The tendons stood out in his neck, yet all around them, away from the crossed swords, the small kitchen had quieted.

"Who taught you?" Obi-Wan asked hoarsely.

"I taught myself, but I also found someone who understands what I want... " Anakin's voice roughened... "what I _need_."

Obi-Wan gazed at the spitting, whining blades. Without loosening his grip, he tried to wipe the blood from his eye with one shoulder. Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. "Dooku!" he breathed, knowing all at once that it was so. "I heard that you had communicated with him."

Anakin shrugged faintly. His blade remained steady. "He taught Qui-Gon. Qui-Gon taught you. You could say I kept it in the family."

Through the faint haze of blood and sparks, Obi-Wan looked into Anakin's eyes for any sign of mockery or irony. He found none.

"Anakin, Count Dooku is a rogue and a troublemaker. His crusade is bringing the Galaxy to the brink of war!"

"And I'm a pirate and an outlaw, scrabbling for my existence any way I can," Anakin growled. "It's a perfect match, don't you think?"

They were no longer alone. The footsteps had stilled. Outside their fiery circle stood others; silent, barely breathing, filling the space with unvoiced agitation.

Obi-Wan let out a breath, and his blade disappeared. Anakin's hovered alone for a moment, then retracted with a low-pitched sound, like a moan.

"Everything all right here?" Remy's voice rumbled, with an overtone that implied the answer had better be 'yes.'

"We're done," Anakin said. "This conversation is going nowhere."

"Anakin, please!" Obi-Wan protested. "We need to talk ..."

"We _have_ been talking. You haven't said anything worth hearing!"

"What is it that you want to hear?"

"The TRUTH!" Anakin roared.

Kenobi stood his ground. "I don't know the truth! I hoped that we could puzzle it out together."

Anakin pointed the hilt of his lightsaber at Obi-Wan. "Get out. Go back to town. Better yet, go back to Coruscant and tell the Council to leave me alone. But whatever you do, you're not staying here. Got that, Remy?"

"Got it."

Obi-Wan's face was white under the streaks of blood. Anakin's looked much the same.

Flanked by the Biggs brothers, the big desert man moved toward Obi-Wan. "You can take your spies with you, Jedi," Remy said, reaching for Obi-Wan's arm to drag him out. Before he could grasp it, the Jedi had stepped quickly just out of reach.

"Spies?" Anakin and Kenobi turned toward Remy at the same time.

"The ones who were following us," Remy spoke to Anakin, while watching Kenobi. "They're Naboo. I've seen them in town." He smiled grimly. "They're baked, all right."

Anakin rubbed the side of his face with his sleeve. "Give them water and let them cool off before you haul them off... no, wait. I have a better idea. I have to get back to the farm, so I'll take them in the big speeder. They're probably Padmé's people, anyway."

"I'd like to know what they were doing following us," Remy growled.

"I believe that was inadvertently my doing," Kenobi admitted quietly. "I asked the Senator's Chief of Security to return the Senator to safety and to bring her team together. I suspect he decided that includes me."

"What do mean, return her to safety?" Anakin demanded.

"She was at the MediCenter waiting for you," Obi-Wan said. "I don't like seeing her in town. She is much safer at your family's farm."

Anakin crossed his arms and studied the ground. Kenobi would have given a lot to know what he was thinking at that moment. The others hovered close by, all of their attention, all their _energy_ wrapped up in the man who was the absolute center of their lives. He was more than their leader. He was their light and their Law. In the face of his displeasure, all the inroads Kenobi had made with Anakin's people vanished like vapor.

Remy leaned over to whisper something to him. Anakin leaned closer to hear, turning his back on Obi-Wan.

It was time to go. Obi-Wan would not say goodbye (this was not over, he thought, not by far) but for the moment, he had better make himself scarce. Moving behind the Biggs Brothers, he took a moment to dampen down his presence in the Force, and slipped out of the kitchen.

The large space beyond the stairs was no longer empty. Immediately above him, a group of people sat silently on one of the platforms above. Obi-Wan looked up to see Vespé, Danil and ... by the stars, there was Eirtaé, too! ... being held at blasterpoint by Solly. They all looked as if they were suffering from heat exhaustion, pale and trembling. Leaping lightly up to their level, Obi-Wan clapped Solly on the shoulder.

"Anakin said to get them water. I'll keep an eye on them for you."

Not yet knowing that the Jedi was no longer a welcome guest in the cave, Solly complied cheerfully. "Sure thing. I'll be right back." Then he did a double take, staring at Obi-Wan's face.

The blood, no doubt. Obi-Wan had forgotten all about it. "It's nothing," he reassured the old desert man. "The kitchen's a mess, though. A pot exploded."

With a dubious look, but with full trust in the Jedi, Solly left on his errand.

Obi-Wan squatted down in front of his companions, who gazed at him with varying degrees of concern. Eirtaé quite openly reached out to touch his injured face. Gently, he removed her hand.

"I don't have much time. It seems we are all about to be evicted from here. My former pupil is not happy to see me, nor does he want to spend any time working out our differences. I believe he plans personally to take you all back to the Lars farm. I ask you to please comply. Offer no resistance. I need you to be my eyes and ears where he is concerned, since he won't let me close to him. The important thing is to stay together, and to stay with Padmé. I sense that something is coming towards us, toward Tatooine; something much larger than our present concerns."

Danil leaned forward, speaking quietly and rapidly. "We came here only to speak with you, because you could not otherwise be reached."

"All three of you?" Obi-Wan asked dryly. "That seems... excessive."

Danil slid a sharp glance at Eirtaé before continuing, "I apologize for our clumsiness in getting caught. We were unprepared for the rigors of traveling in the wastes, and chose the wrong vehicle."

Obi-wan nodded briefly. "What is your news?"

"It is as you say. Something big is happening out in space. The comms are so poor we couldn't get a good picture of it, but the Core types we have been following have been ordered off planet to rendezvous with a fleet. We don't know what or whose. As far as we can tell, this fleet is massing right here in this star system. Captain Typho has gone to the _Veritas_ to use the scanners, and maybe take a first-hand look."

_Is it war_? Obi-Wan wondered. _So soon?_ He did not voice his thoughts to the others.

"I expect our desert friends took away your comm. links."

Danil nodded ruefully.

"I must contact the Jedi Council immediately. Since I have been ordered off the premises anyway, I will return to town to join the Captain on the _Veritas._ Tell me quickly – where did they leave your speeder?"

"I'm not sure," Danil said. "They dragged us in with a crude tractor beam that fried our navicomputer. The speeder got pretty badly scraped up, too. The place we landed was pitch dark, and they were waiting for us."

"I think I can find it again," Eirtaé said. I took careful note of the distance and the turnings."

Obi-Wan smiled. "I imagine you did. If you could describe them to me..."

"No. I cannot."

Obi-Wan looked at her, puzzled. "But if you..."

"I can take you there. It is easier than telling." (Behind her, Danil rolled his eyes.)

"That is not a good idea. Your absence will be noticed."

"Do you want the speeder, Jedi Kenobi, or don't you?"

Despite near heatstroke and her visible discomfort, Eirtaé remained as unmovable as marble.

"Fine," Obi-Wan agreed at last. "We will get you water on the way. You two – stay here, and do exactly what they tell you. Understood? And drink all the water they give you."

"We hear and obey, Master Jedi," Vespé said sweetly.

"I wish that were true of all of you," Obi-Wan grumbled, first glaring at Eirtaé, then offering her his hand.

She took it and stood. In a moment, the two had disappeared from sight. A moment after that, Solly appeared carrying a tray laden with a pitcher and cups.

"Where's Kenobi?" he demanded. "Where's that other woman?"

Danil jumped up to help him with the tray. "It's all right. Our companion is with the Jedi."

"Master Kenobi made us promise to stay here," Vespé added with a charming smile, "so of course, we did. May I?" She indicated the water.

"Um... I guess so," Solly muttered, looking seriously confused about the fact that the prisoners he had been holding with a blaster a short time before had docilely waited for his return. Both of his prisoners drank deeply, and then the woman offered Solly water in the third cup, the one meant for the missing woman. When they were finished drinking, the prisoners sat primly on their stools, looking extra-polite, like visitors in somebody's house.

Well, Solly figured, if they were just sitting there and not trying to get away, it must be all right.

But it sure was strange.

"What are you doing, Eirtaé?"

"I'm coming with you."

"Haven't you had enough? You barely made it through the first journey in this inadequate speeder. You still don't look well. Please go back to the others, and let yourself be transported back to the farm with them."

"No, Obi-Wan," Eirtaé had made herself as comfortable as possible in the poorly insulated speeder. "I refuse."

"I could make you."

"You could."

"I could carry you back to the cave and there wouldn't be a thing you could do about it."

"You could. But you will not."

Obi-Wan leaned his forehead against the speeder's dome and sighed.

"I don't have time for this."

"Then I suggest you stop wasting it."

"Are all Naboo so stubborn?"

"It takes years of training, but yes."

"Did you coerce Danil and Vespé into bringing you along in the same way?"

"There was no coercion. I am their superior. They did as they were ordered."

Obi-Wan tried another tactic. "We will need extra water. That will take time."

Eirtaé hefted the flask they had filled in the water cave. "This will be enough if you make good speed."

He stared at her balefully, then slid into the pilot's seat. "The navicomputer is blown."

"As Danil said."

"Do you have any idea..."

"Due north. If we follow the suns, they will take us straight to Mos Eisley."

"I'm going to regret this," Obi-Wan muttered, and started the speeder.

"You don't mean that," Eirtaé said peaceably.

"No," Obi-Wan admitted, tilting the speeder to aim for a not-very-horizontal slit in the rocks that seemed the only way out. Eirtaé practically slid into his lap before she tightened her harness. He gunned the engine and went for the opening. "I suppose I don't."

Outside the protection of the cave, the suns' inferno hit them like a wall of heat and light. Eirtaé flinched helplessly. Her eyes squeezed shut of their own accord and her hands instinctively flew up to protect them.

Obi-Wan set the light and heat shields on maximum. They were of little help. "Give me your hand," he ordered.

She forced her eyes open and held out her hand to him. Without moving his attention from the treacherous ridge, he encircled her wrist using his thumb and finger. Almost immediately, a sense of pleasant coolness began to flow from that point through the rest of her body. She could feel herself relax, and sighed.

"See?" she said. "I knew you would not let any harm come to me."

"I wish others shared your faith," Kenobi said.

It was mid-afternoon of what already had been a long, long day before Anakin finally returned to the Lars family farm, bringing Danil and Vespé with him. Cliegg was so annoyed by the invasion of his home by yet more strangers that he locked himself into the garage, with hardly even a word to Shmi. Owen and Beru, who had been there since bringing Shmi back home from the Medicenter, sized up the situation and left for Beru's family's farm. Young Rhea panicked and became quite tearful when she realized that in Beru's absence, she was in charge of feeding and serving all those people, but Vespé took her aside, gave her a quick hug, and reassured her that she was not alone.

"We should get Danil to cook," Vespé said with a wink. "He takes such pride in his skill."

Anakin walked in looking utterly exhausted. Padmé awaited him at the bottom of the steps, where she had planted herself the moment Threepio announced his arrival, and that of additional visitors.

He looked pale and drawn, and he had a raw-looking gash over one eye, but his face brightened when he saw her.

"Anakin," she began, "how is it that you're..."

He skipped down the last few steps and grabbed her hand, interrupting her. "Come with me." He walked swiftly across the atrium, practically dragging her with him, and frustrating her bodyguards no end. "Where's Mom?"

"In her room..."

Anakin stopped only long enough to allow Padmé to enter Shmi and Owen's modest bedchamber ahead of him. Shmi sat in a corner, already smiling broadly. Still holding Padmé by the hand, Anakin closed the door in the faces of Padmé's determined guards, strode to his mother's side, lifted her to her feet and hugged her to him with his free arm.

"I'm really sorry about the MediCenter, Mom. I promise I will take care of the last repairs tonight. It'll be ready for you in the morning."

"You feel... very tired," Shmi said into his shoulder. "Rest now. There is ... no hurry."

Anakin clung to her, pulling Padmé closer. "I've missed you both."

Padmé closed her eyes, almost dizzy at finding herself included in this most intimate of moments. Something tight loosened in her chest. She took a breath, and found it easy and sweet.

"Perhaps you could rest here for a while," she suggested hesitantly. Shmi and I could stay with you, and keep everyone else away."

Anakin shoulders drooped a little, as if the idea of rest already had overtaken him. "Maybe for a little while," he murmured. "But Cliegg..." He had never in his life lain on Cliegg's bed.

"It's all right," Shmi murmured thickly. "Lie here. Rest."

Anakin dropped away from them onto the large bed and closed his eyes. He might have been asleep before his head touched the worn bedcover.

Padmé touched his forehead lightly with the back of her hand. "He doesn't feel feverish at all. He's just exhausted. The cut doesn't look too deep..."

Shmi and Padmé stood beside him for a while, each watching him in her own way. Then Shmi settled back into her chair in the corner and Padmé took her accustomed stool by her side. They soon found that conversation didn't disturb Anakin's sleep in the slightest, and spent the remainder of the afternoon as they always did, talking quietly or sitting together in peaceable silence, listening to the sounds of domestic life taking place outside in the atrium. Now and then, someone knocked on the door, but Padmé always shooed the intruder away.

Eventually there was a more insistent knock.

"Evening meal is ready, My Lady. Will you be joining us?"

"Shmi?" Padmé asked over her shoulder. The older woman shook her head, "no."

"Later, thank you, Rhea. Please keep some for us. And for Anakin."

The door closed again. Beyond Anakin's deep breathing, they listened to the domestic sounds of mealtime, and were content.

It was not long after the meal that the sounds in the atrium changed. Voices grew louder, more insistent. Chairs scraped. Feet hurried. Someone said, "Will you look at that!"

Anakin's breathing changed. His eyes opened. He jerked upright, looking around suspiciously until he saw his mother and smiled. Blind as she was, Shmi knew the moment he awoke, and groped her way to the bed to sit beside him.

"I'll go see what is going on," Padmé offered, and slipped away to give them some privacy.

Everyone but Cliegg (apparently he was still hiding out in the garage) was clustered around the security controls. Through the greenish haze of the viewscreen, Padmé made out an image of hundreds of flickering lights gathered around the perimeter of the farm.

"What's going on?"

"Who are they?"

"What do they want?"

"It's nearly dark! Why would anyone come out here in the dark?"

Padmé laughed in sudden recognition. "It's Anakin they want! Someone passed the word that he is here, and they have come to see him, just like they did at the MediCenter!"

She dashed up the stairs. "Open the door, please, Threepio. Are the perimeter shields set?"

"No, Miss Padmé, I was just about to set them for the night when we saw..."

"Well, don't set the shields yet!" Padmé called from the doorway.

At least four Naboo swarmed up the stairs after her. "My Lady, you mustn't go outside ..."

"Look at this," Padmé cried as they came up behind her. "Just look at this!"

As far as she could see, the desert just beyond the farm was dotted by warm-colored bobbing lights, some in clusters, some in lines, all connected to individuals or rows of vehicles that were spreading out around the farm. She could hear engines, and the sounds of voices.

"Oh, that is NOT safe," Danil said behind her. "They're asking for trouble. If the Tuskens get wind of this..."

Padmé gazed out at the gathering and saw, not danger, but images of the Plaza in front of Naboo's Palace on a ceremony or feast day. She saw a thousand gatherings in front of a thousand palaces, great and small, where the faithful gathered to find community, guidance, security, wisdom...

"Oh," Anakin's voice said behind her. "I don't... I can't... why are they here?"

"Why do you think?" Padmé admonished him gently. "They are here because you're here. They haven't seen you since you returned."

"Oh," Anakin said again, sounding a bit desperate. "What are we going to do with them? How are we going to keep them safe?"

Padmé laughed with genuine amusement. "You need to go out there and let yourself be seen. No more hiding out. Once they are satisfied that you are truly back among them and that you are all right, they can be persuaded to return to town. It is a big enough group that they can protect one another. No raiding party would attack a group of hundreds."

"All right," Anakin conceded. Under his breath he added, "... but I just don't get it."

"Do you know what you are, Anakin?" Padmé asked, leaning comfortably against the roughcast dome wall with her arms crossed. Tendrils of her hair blew loose around her face in the welcome late evening breeze.

"In trouble?" he suggested promptly. "In over my head? Confused?" After a moment, he added, "Hungry?"

"You, my dearest friend, are the King of Tatooine. Now, go give your people what they want."

"What do they want?" He sounded incredulous.

"The short version? To know that you care about them and will strive to keep them safe."

Anakin hung back, looking out over the scene. "What's the long version?"

"Just go!" Padmé gave him a little shove, and watched him walk out into the sea of lights.


	20. Chapter 19 Sea of Stars

**Chapter 19. Sea of Lights**

There were so many lights. Too many.

The hunter studied the disturbing picture in the desert below the ridge, fiercely gripping his gaffi stick.

There were as many lights and vehicles as if one of the Others' foul villages was moving in its entirety across the desert.

_Our desert ... in the night that belongs to us!_

_They should be afraid of us, but they are not._

It wasn't to be stomached.

The hunter's fists tightened on his stick. There were too many of them below to defeat, like at their great races and gatherings, but there were other ways to put fear into their limbs.

He put down his stick and picked up his long-barreled cycler rifle, signaling those nearest him with a barely audible whistle, like a puff of wind. Even with the noise coming from below, he could hear the whisper echo all the way along the ridge as it passed from one to the next. They were an unusually large hunting party this night. The Elders must have known something of this, as they so often did in these new, disturbing times.

_The night is ours. Now and always. What is taken from us, we will take back._

He raised the rifle to his shoulder and fired. Other shots followed in rapid succession, like the sound of bones snapping when you bent a womp rat's spine back over your knee. He waited for the certain result: after a moment's silence below, the noise would begin ... shouts ... screams... perhaps the sudden roar of engines. The clustered lights would separate and move about wildly, creating better targets, and he and his band would fire again, and again, and again...

That was not what happened. Not even the moment of surprise.

Before the last few shots rang out, the night sky between hunter and prey was alight with the red streaks of returned fire. The hunter and his brethren didn't flinch; their long-nosed rifles had a greater range than the weapons the enemy called blasters. But they paused fractionally, wondering why the group below did not scream, or fall, or scatter. Why the engines shut down suddenly, leaving only the sound of voices calling out in short barks. Why the strangers behaved as if they had known the hunters were there...?

They should not have paused.

The hunter swung his rifle back to his shoulder, carefully targeting the edges of the huddled group below, to the glow of more blaster fire - brighter, too close! - and the sounds of muffled yelps and the thud of falling bodies nearby along the ridge.

_Impossible. They cannot shoot that far!_

A strange light caught his eye in the melee below – blue, and long, like a stick. It stood out. Wherever the light went, the red streaks from the Others' blasters seemed to bend and go higher and further, reaching all the way up to the ridge. He aimed for the streaking blue light: a difficult shot, but not impossible.

A careful breath. Exactly the right wind. He fired. He did not miss.

The last thing the hunter ever saw was nothing – not even a flash of red – as his own projectile returned to tear open his heart.

"My Lady, are you all right?" Danil Panaka's breathless question came from somewhere behind Padmé. With relief, she leaned back the high seat and holstered her weapon with, it has to be said, a little flourish. Anakin's big old transport had served as a fine shield for her and quite a few others. It was a pity that she was armed only with her small blaster.

"I am absolutely fine, Danil. Is all well?"

"Yes, My Lady. I don't think we lost anyone. I mean – not one in the whole mob."

A little smile played around Padmé's lips. She turned to the girl who huddled on the floor near a hulking wall of metal. "Come on out, Rhea. It's all over."

"As a precaution, My Lady," Danil persisted, "I think you should remain inside the vehicle..."

"Nonsense," Padmé cut him off. "Anakin called the all clear. That's enough for me." Pushing past Danil, she jumped down to the sand and surveyed the scene. Under the desert's night sky – the glittering stars so bright that not even the sea of glowlamps and primitive fire torches could dim them - the transports and speeders were re-starting their engines. People streamed from the center toward the vehicles that had formed a protective perimeter around them, finding their places inside. The mood was calm, almost orderly. Padmé wasn't the only one smiling.

_Remarkable,_ she thought. _Considering what just happened._

"Stay sharp when you move out!" someone with a loud voice called out. "There might be more of those devils hiding up there."

Up in the transport, Rhea looked around with wide, shocked eyes. Padmé took pity on her. "You may remain inside the speeder, Mouse. Stay low. It is armored. You'll be safe."

"But My Lady, what about you?" Rhea's voice was faint with fear.

"I'm going to take a walk," Padmé insisted, already striding toward the center of the melee.

Danil fell into step her, leaving the frightened young Handmaiden in the huge transport, but calling back, "I'll look after the Senator. Don't worry, Rhea. You'll be fine." When the girl was out of earshot, he murmured, "How can she be a Handmaiden without combat training?"

"Special circumstances. A family connection. Household work on Coruscant wasn't thought to be dangerous." Padmé wasn't really paying attention. Ignoring Danil's disapproving scowl, she searched among the lights and the shadows and the swarms of people for a particular face.

"Everything is dangerous," Danil muttered, but Padmé was gone, sprinting toward the center of the crowd. "My Lady!" Danil leaped after her.

Padmé had only run a short distance when she was encircled, stopped, and practically suffocated by her personal security detail. There had nearly been a fight when Anakin had asked her bodyguards, Typho's hand-picked finest, to take positions among the less well defended portions of the convoy. Only Padmé's furious orders, and her unimpeachable authority as former Queen, had pried the loyal Naboo soldiers from her side in the transport and prevented them from trying to bash in Anakin's head in the process. Now they were back, taking her brief moment of freedom with them.

"You should return to your positions," Padmé said crossly. "The convoy is not out of the desert, or out of danger, yet."

"The all-clear has been called, My Lady," the highest ranking among them insisted sturdily. "If you won't remain sheltered, we cannot leave you unattended."

"We'll see about that," Padmé growled. Pushing her way between the muscled shoulders of two of her tall guardsmen, she marched toward the crowd surrounding the man whom she considered to be the rightful leader of the whole enterprise – the man who had somehow transformed an informal mob into a fighting group so that he could see them safely home. A man who, without any doubt, knew exactly what he was doing.

It was almost as if he knew she was coming. The crowd seemed to part somehow, and Anakin appeared, walking toward her. Framed by the lights that people held aloft around him, he looked serious, almost somber. Padmé's inner smile faded. She saw herself suddenly as he must see her – a lone woman surrounded by five expert fighters while so many others remained unprotected. Her cheeks began to burn.

"Anakin!" she called out boldly. "Surely these men are needed elsewhere?"

He stepped closer and looked around at her group, taking his time before he spoke. Padmé and her men carried no lights. Despite the pool of shadow around them, Padmé imagined she saw a soft glimmer in Anakin's eyes when he looked at her.

_Stop it! _she ordered herself._ He has much more important things than me to worry about. _ _And that is as it should be._

When he finally spoke, it was directly to her men, rather than to Padmé.

"We're about halfway to town, and we aren't moving very fast, which means at least another three hours before we're anywhere safe. The Tuskens tend to hunt in small, widely separated groups, but it's best not to count on them keeping to their old habits. That hunting party up on the ridge was more than double their usual. Another one could be nearby, and there's no telling how much warning we'll have."

Anakin's gaze swept the people around him who anxiously followed every word he said. He stepped closer, right next to Padmé. Lowering his voice slightly, he continued to address her men.

"A lot of people brought their whole families along, including children. Can you believe it? I don't know what they were thinking. Most are armed, but the problem is that townspeople generally carry blasters. Only those of us who spend time in the desert carry long range rifles." He nodded to indicate the cycler rifles with which he had supplied each of Padmé's guards. "You saw what happened. Blasters don't have enough range. In skilled hands, one rifle can protect dozens of people. I can help increase the blasters' range, but I can't be everywhere. I would be grateful if you would continue to stand guard in your previous positions until we get to town."

"What about the Senator?" Danil demanded.

"If you have an extra rifle," Padmé cut in quickly, "I can be of considerably more use to you than hidden away in a transport!"

Anakin dropped his head to unclip the lightsaber that had surprised them all. Padmé had the fleeting impression that he hid a smile beneath the loose strands of his hair, but when he looked up again, his expression was suitably serious. Padmé could feel her men looking at the weapon his hand. She knew what they were thinking: _a Jedi weapon._ It was something important; a thing they would not take lightly, having seen it wielded.

"We don't have a rifle to spare, Senator, but if everybody agrees, I think I have a workable plan that would allow you more freedom of movement while keeping you safe."

An hour later, Padmé still felt like pinching herself to test whether she was dreaming. It was as if she had somehow slipped between worlds, having left hers behind to live fully in Anakin's. Her bodyguards were scattered around the massed convoy's periphery doing what they did best – protecting people – from strategic positions they had helped to decide. Rhea had remained in the heavy transport, which she had to share with a large family that Anakin and Padmé had agreed needed better shelter. Padmé was therefore unencumbered, armed, and (this was the best part!) under_ strict orders_ from her people not to leave Anakin's side for a moment.

Anakin had merely suggested to Typho's Best, with all humility, that the single safest place for Padmé while in the convoy was under the close protection of his Jedi blade. The respect he had shown the men by dealing directly with them, together with his subtly flattering plea for their expert help, had been far more persuasive than Padmé's fiercest orders. They had (reluctantly) accepted the wisdom of transferring responsibility for their precious charge to the desert man with the Jedi skills - _only _until they reached the town, of course.

The agreement had been sealed democratically by all – even Danil – with handshakes all around. For once, Padmé didn't mind her Naboo troops' _de facto_ insubordination. She could be quite pragmatic when the outcome met her needs.

"Do you really think another attack is imminent?" she had asked Anakin quietly as soon as they walked away together.

"Not at all. I think we're pretty safe from here on out."

Padmé had stared at him. "What makes you so sure?"

"We know that Tusken hunting parties stay far apart. I expect the other parties and the tribe won't find out what happened to this group until daylight. We have to stay alert, but I'd be really surprised if we run across another hunting party before we get to town."

"So... you _lied_?"

That time Anakin didn't hide his smile. "I wouldn't say that. I'm simply taking all the necessary precautions. Surely that can't be held against me. I got the feeling that you were tired of being locked up in the transport and smothered by your babysitters. If I'm wrong ... if you'd rather return to the transport ... I'll take you straight back."

"No! Of course I don't want to go back, and you know it!" An old, familiar feeling had crept over her – an unsettling combination of audacity and nerves. "I'm glad you're my friend. I wouldn't like you as an enemy."

"That would never happen, and _you_ know it. I'll always be on your side."

Even though she was technically 'assigned' to Anakin, being with him did not feel like imprisonment as it had with Captain Typho and Obi-Wan. In fact, it was a physical challenge because he never stayed in one place. Once it got going, the massed convoy traveled at a sedate pace, but that was still considerably faster than walking speed. Anakin kept moving from one transport to the next, touching base with people, checking that they were armed and all right. Occasionally that meant standing still until the next vehicle moved up, but more often he would catch a ride on a running board or other outside surface of one transport before leaping to the vehicle beside it. Padmé was not sure how she kept up; all she knew was that when Anakin held her hand, the jumps from one moving vehicle to the next seemed effortless, and her balance was perfect, even in the dark. He held her hand most of the time. Sometimes, she felt as if she could fly. (It was a good thing he stayed away from the perimeter, where the lookouts rode. If the Naboo guards had spotted those leaps, there would have been hell to pay.)

They had been at it for a while when Anakin saw someone he seemed to know well.

"Hey, Popper! What are you doing out here in all this craziness? You should know better!"

An old, beaten-up double-seat speeder slowed down marginally, and a heavy-set middle-aged man with his arm in a sling leaned out, grinning. "Anakin, lad! It's so good to see you! Most of us came to the medicenter to say hello. When we found out you weren't there any more, nobody wanted to go home. The mob thing just kind of happened. There was no stopping people. You know how it is."

"Popper, open up that top for a sec, will you?"

Padmé was running out of breath, trying to keep up with Anakin as he jogged beside the speeder. The moment the old-style bubble top slid open, he grabbed her around the waist and hoisted her into the rear seat. She was about to protest when he vaulted in after her.

"You don't mind, do you, Popper?" (Anakin didn't sound at all winded. Padmé resolved on the spot to resume physical training, now that she was well.)

"You're kidding me, right? You have no idea how much we missed you."

Anakin clapped the older man on his good shoulder. "I missed you, too. This is Padmé, by the way. She's an old friend."

_Padmé. Just Padmé._ She liked being in Anakin's world. Padmé smiled warmly at the man when he turned around to nod courteously.

"How's Kit?" Anakin asked. "Have you seen him?"

"You heard, eh?" Popper shook his shaggy head. "That young one ... he's hurt pretty bad."

The speeder's bubble top slid back to cover the compartment, creating a quiet space. Anakin fell silent and slid a long arm along the back of the seat, cradling Padmé's shoulders. She leaned back against it, content.

When Padmé turned to look at Anakin, she found him watching her with an unreadable expression. The noise of the convoy faded away. Time seemed to hover uncertainly, not knowing whether to move forward or backward.

"What now?" Anakin asked.

_What now?_

What now, indeed! How like him to cut straight to the heart of the matter, without any dissembling or pretty words!

Padmé had moved mighty bureaucracies, defied people who would give their lives for her, and waited interminable days to arrive at this precise moment. Anakin had carved this opportunity – this quiet moment in the back of the old speeder with the uncomfortable seat – out of a mountain of other demands on his time and attention. And after all that ... after _all that_ ... the truth was that she didn't actually know what to say.

_What now?_

She started to laugh.

Anakin raised his eyebrows quizzically.

She tried to control it. Tears came. She didn't know what to do. Popper glanced over his shoulder several times, clearly alarmed. Padmé waved her hands in the air in the classic gesture of "be with you in a moment," but she couldn't stop. Every time she thought the wave of... whatever... had subsided, it bubbled up again. She hardly knew whether she was laughing or crying. Probably both.

Anakin watched her for a while, then leaned forward to murmur something to Popper. A flask appeared, which he opened and pressed into Padmé's hands.

"Here, drink this."

She obeyed. It was water, fresh and unexpectedly cold. "Oh," she sputtered. "Good." It seemed to calm the convulsions. She handed him the flask and wiped her cheeks on her sleeves.

"I'm sorry," she said when she could speak again. Another giggle erupted, but she managed to quell it.

"Don't be."

When she could look at him again, she saw no judgment in his eyes, only sympathy. It occurred to her to wonder what those blue eyes - _certainly_ no longer a child's - had witnessed over the past decade. Frailty and villainy, no doubt. Tragedy and triumph. Love and hate. War and death. The same things that she had seen. Great things. Terrible things. She found her voice again, her sober voice.

"Thank you for making the time for me, Anakin. I know that everyone else needs your attention, too, but there are some things..." she paused, glancing fractionally at the back of Popper's head..."I have some things on my mind that I really want to talk over with you. I honestly don't know who else to turn to." She wiped her sleeve across her face again. She felt grubby.

Anakin nodded. "Are you tired?"

"What?"

"Are you tired? Do we need to find you a place to sleep?"

"Oh... no, not at all." She was puzzled. "Why?"

"I need to go back to the medicenter. If you feel up to it, you could come with me..."

Padmé came back to herself, flushing with shame that she had not even asked about his health. "I'm so sorry! Are you still ill? After last night..."

"No, it's not me. I'm fine. Really. There are just some things I need to check before I let Mom ... or anyone else... any get treatment there. We could talk while I work... if that's all right with you."

Padmé's world, with all its complications, resurfaced. "What about my guards?"

"They can guard the building, if they like." Anakin grinned. "From the _outside_."

Padmé smiled back. All right? Was it all right?

It was perfect.

Padmé wasn't the only one who felt as if she had slipped between worlds. For Obi-Wan and Eirtaé, stepping inside the_ Veritas _after the last few grueling days in the desert felt like entering a holovid of a nearly forgotten world. The moment Captain Typho opened the hatch, the perspiration Obi-Wan had worn like a second skin in the desert cooled, making him shiver. Eirtaé stumbled as she stepped in beside him. Captain Typho caught her arm to steady her, but it was Obi-Wan's eyes the soldier sought out, suppressed tension written all over his face. Clearly, he was bursting with news, none of it good.

Beside Obi-Wan, Eirtaé stood for a moment with her eyes closed, breathing deeply of the ship's clean, cool air. While waiting for the _Veritas_ to return from her short venture into space to verify the rumors of a massed fleet, she had patiently suffered Dax's ministrations at the medicenter, but she was tired, filthy, and not at her best.

"I can see that your news is urgent, Captain, but can it wait until we refresh ourselves?" Obi-Wan suggested on her behalf. "Say, half a standard hour?"

"This can't wait." The Captain's voice was tight, over-controlled.

Eirtaé opened her eyes. Faced the Captain squarely. Refused to yield. "Sorry, Captain. I _must _change clothes. I'll be quick." Without waiting for him to agree, she hurried down the corridor toward her cabin.

"She is probably longing to wash off the last traces of this planet," Obi Wan explained. "She hasn't had the easiest time of it." Looking down at his own stained tunic, he wished he could do the same. He could endure the grime as long as necessary, but he needed a little breathing space to center himself. His meditations in Anakin's water cave had left him with ominous, disturbing images, along with an underlying tension, unusual for him, that he had not been able to shake off. "I would also prefer a short respite, but if you like, we can talk now and fill Eirtaé in later."

"Come to the bridge, then. I want you to see the scans."

"After you, Captain."

He was tired again, bone-weary, in fact. That wouldn't do at all. It was nowhere near as bad as after the medicenter fiasco, but the feeling of strain was noticeable, and disconcerting. He had never had difficulty managing his energies before. The first thing a Padawan learned was how to draw energy from the Force, how to work with it to balance the body's needs. How else could a Jedi find his strength? Even Anakin had learned that much during his short tenure in the Temple. It was the reason that, to others, he seemed indefatigable. And yet, here in this place, Obi-Wan fought with constant weariness.

The _Veritas'_ bridge was aglow with lit-up navscreens. Typho strode to the largest.

"There," he pointed. "And there."

Obi-Wan looked at the large screens, then at the smaller ones. Steepled his hands over his nose and mouth in concentration. Studied the massed lights that were not stars.

"How long have they been there?"

"According to the spaceport authority, twenty unidentified ships arrived within scanning range two standard days ago. More arrive every few hours. The current total is...

"...Yes, I see it." _100 ships and more in battle formation._ _An invasion worthy of an attack on Coruscant._

_Why?_

"Do we know..."

"They don't answer hails. From anyone."

Obi-Wan stepped closer to the larger screen, and then, not finding what he was searching for, studied the others. No command ship worthy of a fleet like this would easily reveal its presence, but perhaps there was some way to identify it...

He gathered himself, and pushing away fatigue, purging himself of everything but pure, focused intention, he reached out through the Force for some indication of a center, of command...

... and lurched back violently, barely able to stay on his feet, until he hit the console behind him.

Typho turned sharply. "What happened? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." Calm words. A lie. Inside, Obi-Wan was reeling.

_Something_ had pushed back against him ... something powerful enough to perceive the presence in the Force of a lone Jedi on an inhabited planet. Something familiar (_dark; hard), _for which he had been utterly unprepared.

There had been _consciousness _in that push. _(And ... could it be... amusement?)_

"I need to contact the Jedi Temple. Encryption Delta-plus." Obi-Wan tore his eyes away from the glowing screens to find the Naboo staring at him uneasily. "Right now, Captain, if you please!"

Typho sprinted to the comm., established the connection, and then made himself scarce. He knew the protocol. Jedi business was Jedi business.

When the shimmering image of Master Yoda appeared before him, Obi-Wan almost collapsed with relief.

"Master Yoda ..." Obi-Wan's mouth tasted of blood. He saw yellow eyes, a tattooed face, black and red; heard again his Master's dying whisper: "... _promise ... promise me you will train the boy..."_ He swallowed, then began again. "Master Yoda, I may have found the other Sith."

The floor of the MedLab (the locals were starting to call it the 'droid room') seemed to be a single sheet of sterile metal without a single visible rivet. Padmé had occasion to notice because she'd been sitting on it for hours, surrounded by odd pieces of metal that Anakin would periodically deposit in front of her in neat groupings, only to retrieve them again later as he systematically checked all the lab's systems. She had done most of the talking while Anakin worked, but he had an almost unnerving way of listening intently despite appearing to be focused on other things. When he did respond, quietly, and in his own time, (he was as economical with words as he was efficient with his movements) it was often with a question or comment that stopped her in her tracks.

"So... who are your friends?" he'd asked, after she'd spent considerable time talking about her frustrations with the Military Creation Act.

"What do you mean?"

"In the Senate. Who are your friends?"

"You don't have friends in the Senate. If you're effective, you pull together enough allies to get something done, or to form a voting block. But _friends_..." she trailed off.

He'd crossed the room to her then and crouched down, clutching a fistful of something. "No wonder you find it so hard. You've got no one to trust."

"I have my staff..."

"It's not the same. They're your support team, not your allies. You don't have anyone backing you up, fighting side by side with you. No wonder you always feel like you're fighting alone."

Padmé was still staring at the space he'd left behind when he deposited a whole pile of small, slimy-feeling bits and pieces into her hand and went back to whatever he was doing.

Some time just before dawn - not so near to it that even a smudge of daylight crept into the medicenter's gleaming treatment room, but near enough that the long night had begun to weigh on her limbs and scratch her eyes - Padmé yawned, as unobtrusively as possible. Anakin noticed anyway, even though he was working on the opposite side of the room.

"I'm almost finished," he assured her.

"You weren't supposed to notice that."

His head popped up over some kind of a long console. "Why not? Senators aren't supposed to admit when they're tired?"

"Well ... no, not really. It doesn't do to admit weakness, after all."

Anakin gestured expressively around the otherwise empty space. There were only the two of them. No one else had set foot in the room all night. "Even to me?"

Padmé smiled. "It also doesn't do to be rude, by making you feel that you have to hurry on my account."

"So you just have to grin and endure everything?"

"No. Senators have to be suitably serious and attentive while enduring everything. Grinning is definitely not in the rulebook."

Anakin crawled under the console backwards, running his hand along the arched base as he went, until he emerged on Padmé's side. "Sounds like Senators and the Jedi would get along really well."

"I don't know about that. But there is definitely no grinning when we meet."

"Or yawning."

"Certainly no yawning!"

Anakin yawned hugely, perhaps to emphasize his point. "I've already proven that I'm no good at being a Jedi. Remind me never to try the Senator business."

"So noted!"

Anakin opened some kind of a panel, underneath the console, peered inside, and shut it again authoritatively. After that, he lay on his back for a while, staring at the closed panel, but doing nothing.

"Speaking of Jedi..." Padmé felt relaxed enough, or sleepy enough, or maybe just plain comfortable enough, to ask the obvious question. "What are you doing with a lightsaber?"

Anakin rolled sideways and stood up in one sinuous motion, and held out his hand for the last of the indefinable bits of metal he had given her to hold. She dumped them gratefully into his palm, and rubbed her hands along the fabric that covered her thighs to rid herself of the slippery feel.

"That's a long story." Anakin struck her as still unsettled, as if the job wasn't done. Holding the little pile in his hand, he kept searching the room with his eyes, studying all the places that he had spent the night going over so carefully.

"What are you looking for, Anakin? What is bothering you about this place?"

His eyes swung back to her at last. He seemed to give up his search and sat down in front of her, putting the metal remnants aside. "Honestly? I don't know. Something about it... something just feels wrong. Even though I've gone over everything at least twice. I know it works. My arm is completely healed, it's amazing. But there's this feeling..." He took a deep breath. "Can Senators keep secrets?"

"As a breed, I don't trust them at all. No one should. Some individual Senators, on the other hand, are very honorable. _I_ can keep a secret." She met his eyes. "Especially if it's important to you."

"It's important to a lot more people than just me, Padmé. Maybe everyone in the Galaxy; I don't know yet. It's about Dooku. I haven't told anyone about my time with him because I haven't figured out what it all means. I'd like to tell you - no, I _have_ to tell you because you're involved somehow. But I don't want anyone else to know yet. Especially not Obi-Wan. Can you live with that?"

She studied him. He was bursting with something. She felt the weight of it. The importance.

"I can live with that for now. Maybe I can even help you figure it all out - whatever it is. If the time comes when I believe that others need to know as well, I won't say anything until I have your express agreement. Can you live with _that?_"

Anakin nodded; a quick decision. He needed to talk. All tiredness forgotten, her mind and senses bright and alert, Padmé let him do just that. She hardly ever interrupted, except to ask for the odd detail or clarification. His telling took a long time. By the time he finished his story, another hot Tatooine morning had begun in earnest. Outside the MedLab, people had begun to move around. Voices called out to one another. Still, Anakin Skywalker, desert man, and Padmé Amidala, Galactic Senator, sat on the floor facing one another, their knees practically touching, their faces taut and serious.

"I sat in Senator Palpatine's office while Master Windu assured everyone that Dooku was incapable of assassinating anyone, because he had once been a Jedi," Padmé said bitterly.

"He is capable of anything, believe me. And he is powerful - more powerful than the Jedi, I think."

"How is that possible?"

"Because he doesn't recognize any limits. I guess that's why he left the Order. They held him back."

Padmé was horrified. The implications - Jedi powers without Jedi control - were almost unimaginable. She glanced involuntarily at the metal cylinder that lay against Anakin's hip. "Are you ... are you going to continue to work with him? In spite of everything?"

A shadow fell over Anakin's face. "That's just it. I don't know."

"Anakin! After everything you told me about him!"

"The thing is, Padmé... when there's this thing inside you, it doesn't just go away because somebody tells you to leave it alone. It isn't just inside you, it IS you... oh, I don't know." Searching for words, he reached for his lightsaber, cradling it in his hand as if he needed something to hold onto.

All of a sudden, his face changed. He looked at the object in his hand with a growing expression of comprehension.

"What is it, Anakin?"

"I can't believe... oh, I've been so stupid!"

Padmé flinched backward as a searing blue blade ignited right before her eyes. In the next second, Anakin was on his feet by the console, cutting easily into a section of smooth metal where there was not, and never had been, a panel. When a neat circle of metal fell to the floor, he unhesitatingly reached inside, as if he knew exactly what he was looking for. The object he drew out fit neatly into his hand. It looked like a large crystal of some kind. Padmé had never seen its like.

"What is it?"

"I don't know."

"How did... how did you know it was there?"

"I felt it. The moment I touched my lightsaber. It was like a vibration..." He shook his head wryly. "But it's a message for me. I know that." Anakin let out a sigh so heavy, so shaky, that it seemed to come straight from his soul. "Dooku was right. I really _do_ have a lot to learn."

The desert morning had dawned bright and hot, but Padmé felt a little chill along her spine, right between her shoulder blades. Before she could say anything, before she could entreat him to be careful, someone banged loudly on the treatment room door.

"My Lady! It's an emergency! You must come at once!"

By the time Padmé had leaped to her feet. Anakin already had opened the door. One of Typho's Best stood there, his fist still raised.

"My Lady, Master Kenobi says that you must return to the _Veritas_ immediately!"

"Why? What has happened?"

"There is an invasion force approaching the planet, My Lady. Tatooine has been blockaded!"

Padmé's gaze flew to Anakin, whose face seemed remarkably still, under the circumstances. In fact, he was rigid. Only his fingers moved, enclosing the strange crystal in a tight fist.

There was a long silence.

"I'm coming with you," he rasped at last.

Impulsively, Padmé took Anakin's free hand in hers. "Obi-Wan is there." She looked at the guard for confirmation. "Isn't he?"

A curt nod.

"Good," Anakin said. The knuckles of the fist that held the crystal were white. "Let's go."


	21. Chapter 20 Masters, Masters Everywhere

**Chapter 20. Masters, Masters Everywhere**

"Well, Obi-Wan?"

The urgent matters of the moment had been discussed, and strategies agreed upon, but Jedi Master Yoda's holographic image still stared at Obi-Wan, not speaking, but also not releasing him.

"Master?" Obi-Wan asked, not understanding.

Yoda finally let out an impatient grunt and banged his stick audibly on the floor. "Well, I said?"

"I'm sorry, Master Yoda. I don't understand. Was there more?"

"Ask for help you must, Obi-Wan, when you need it!" Yoda said testily. "What troubles you? Your opportunity to speak with me is now. Soon enough, another such moment might not come."

Nothing got past Master Yoda. Chagrined, Obi-Wan received the reprimand as a pupil would, with bowed head. But he also accepted the opportunity to pour out the tale of his misdeeds at the medicenter and his struggles with fatigue and meditation. Master Yoda listened intently. And wonder of wonders... instead of criticizing Obi-Wan's choices, he responded with solicitude, addressing with wise counsel the specific difficulties that Obi-Wan was experiencing. The session turned into a wide-ranging lesson about the soul-dampening, energy-dragging nature of the Dark Side of the Force, and the many techniques of protecting against it while remaining fully connected to the Light.

"Mounting everywhere, the Dark influence is, as storm clouds gather on the horizon. But the Dark One's specific attention to Tatooine preceded the blockade. Perceived its effects long before the ships arrived, you did, Obi-Wan."

"As he ... it... perceived my presence ... Jedi presence ... here on Tatooine."

"Just so."

"I will do as you have taught me, Master Yoda. I am grateful for your counsel."

"Courage, you must have, Obi-Wan! When confusion and uncertainty we face, our best efforts _are_ the right efforts. No matter the outcome."

"Thank you, Master." Obi-Wan felt lighter and brighter, like a newly banked fire.

A short time later, clean, wearing pristine robes, and efficiently shielded in the Force, he felt entirely himself again. When Eirtaé rejoined him on the Bridge, looking like a holovid princess, the momentary glow of well-being made them both smile.

"Better?"

"Much, thanks!"

Then Eirtaé saw the tactical holodisplay, and all smiles ended.

"How long before they attack?"

Obi-Wan frowned. "There are no signs of immediate battle preparation. The Jedi Council agrees with me that at the moment, it appears to be a show of force. A political statement."

Eirtaé stared at the screens. Their greenish glow reflected on her face, highlighting lines of worry. "What does it mean, Obi-Wan?"

"War, I think. This isn't just about Tatooine. This is the beginning of something much larger."

"Padmé has been warning about the possibility of Galactic war for some time. She believes that preparing for war, as with the Military Creation Act, encourages war, and that the solution lies first and foremost in diplomacy." Eirtaé's lips compressed. "That is the reason for her fierce opposition to the very idea of a Grand Army of the Republic."

"You disagree?"

"I have always felt that it wise to prepare for the worst. I don't know how Padmé could have come to a different conclusion after the unprovoked attack on our sovereignty ten years ago. But she was Queen then. I was not."

The comment hung oddly in the air between them, piquing Obi-Wan's curiosity. But it wasn't the time for personal discussions.

"The Jedi Council also has foreseen war," he said, "but I have not been privy to the Council's views on centralizing the Republic's fighting forces."

Padmé arrived then, and with her, _Anakin,_ of all people.

There was a brief scuffle in the hatch bay when Typho's best relieved Anakin of his cycler rifle and tried to do the same with his lightsaber, but Anakin settled down when Padmé convinced him to relinquish the rifle while preventing his Jedi weapon from being confiscated. By the time Obi-Wan arrived in the bay to see what all the fuss was, Anakin was hovering uncertainly behind Padmé, his precious lightsaber clutched in one hand, the other clenched into a fist, looking pained and wary. It was no wonder, considering the wave of dark energies he had brought with him onto the _Veritas._ They raised the hairs on the back of Obi-Wan's neck.

"Anakin," he said quickly. "What is it? What is wrong?"

"I need your help."

"Yes, I can see that."

Their eyes met. A challenge flared, and then was gone. Anakin looked down at his locked fist and opened it slowly, as if it took all his will to pry his fingers loose one by one. On his palm was a jewel-like crystalline object. Its sides were enclosed with delicate, elaborate filigree that looked like ornamentation.

Obi-Wan knew better.

"Where did you get that?"

Anakin frowned, as if he was struggling with an answer. "I got it from Dooku," he muttered hesitantly. "But I don't know what it is."

"It is a holocron." Obi-Wan stared at the object, riveted by the intensity of its presence in the Force. Its _dark_ presence.

"I don't know what that is." Anakin bit off the words, as if it pained him to say them.

"Very few people do." Looking around at the curious faces that ringed him, Obi-Wan chose his words carefully. "Essentially, a holocron is a device used by the Force-sensitive to record and to communicate information." He stared at the object. _A Dark holocron. For Anakin. From Dooku. Gods! _ "I think it would be best if Anakin and I spoke alone."

Anakin's fingers closed around the crystal again. A reflex. A defense.

Obi-Wan took a deep breath, a quieting breath, and thought of Master Yoda's words: _When confusion and uncertainty we face, our best efforts are the right efforts. No matter what the outcome. _If he, an experienced Jedi Knight, had needed a Master's support and reassurance, how must it be for Anakin, adrift as he was in a stark new world full of perils and uncertainties?

_He came to me for help._

He sought out Anakin's eyes, endeavoring to express only warmth and reassurance. "I can easily teach you how to use it. Then, if you like, I will leave you in privacy to explore its contents. Come with me. There is a quiet space we can use."

"All right," Anakin agreed. The crystal was still clenched in his fist, but his shoulders relaxed a little. When Padmé patted his arm encouragingly, he stepped forward to follow Obi-Wan.

When they had gone, Padmé strode off in the direction of the Bridge, seemingly indifferent to her grimy appearance or to the trail of sand she left on the floor in her wake.

The _Veritas _had been built with a small, view-free chamber adjacent to the Bridge. Whatever its original intended use, the practical, hardworking Naboo had turned the space into a somewhat cramped meeting room. At its center stood a round table of satiny durasteel, surrounded by small repulsor seats that could be tucked underneath when not in use. The soft, indirect lighting made the metal tabletop glow faintly, like a full moon seen through dark glass.

On display at the center of the table was a purplish faceted crystal shaped like a four-sided pyramid that rested on an elaborately faceted base. It was perfectly transparent but for the complex lines of filigree that ornamented its exterior, muting some of its inner fire. For fiery is was; once Anakin placed it in the center of the table it awakened, its color changing unceasingly, the way a clear prism shoots colors from its facets when struck by an outer light. But whatever animated the crystal on the table came from within. The artificial lighting the room was indirect and dull.

Obi-Wan stood with his arms crossed gazing at it, grateful again for the fortunate timing of his talk with Master Yoda. Surrounded in Light and balanced inside and out, he was able to stand before the object objectively and without pain. For truly, the crystal was an object of the Dark Side.

On the opposite side of the table, Anakin mirrored his posture, but that was the only similarity between them. It was as if Anakin had brought the planet inside with him; he smelled of sweat and dust and engine oil and the lumbering beasts that wandered Mos Eisley's rutted streets. Even his silence ached with clashing energies and emotions. He seemed at once as impenetrable as the rock cliffs and as changeable as the sands.

"A holocron, or holographic chronicle," Obi-Wan explained carefully, "is an organic crystal-lattice device that can store enormous quantities of data. Holocrons are Force-activated, and only really usable by the Force-sensitive, which makes the information they contain quite secure from non-Force users. Master Qui-Gon and I once discovered one among the displays in a small museum on Rexus Prime, which the locals, not knowing better, had labeled and displayed as a local ornamental object. Jedi archivists later identified it as having originated in a different part of the Galaxy, long before the founding of the Republic. Holocron technology has existed for hundreds of thousands of years, long predating the Jedi Order. That means, of course, that the Sith race used such devices long before the Jedi even existed."

He paused, hoping for a reaction from Anakin. None was forthcoming. Did Anakin know about the Sith, ancient or modern? Did he know enough to connect the Sith with Qui-Gon's murder? It was impossible to tell.

"The Jedi use holocrons as a teaching tool. Unlike other forms of data storage, holocrons are interactive in a unique way. Each one contains a gatekeeper which, when activated, can perceive the nature and skill level of the user, and either provide access to or block the data contained within the particular device, according to its programming. There are thousands of holocrons in the Library in the Jedi Temple, some very ancient. There isn't a Jedi alive who, as a Padawan, didn't try to hack a holocron for forbidden information, but as far as I know, none ever succeeded. Holocron gatekeepers are _that_ good."

Anakin's tense expression softened a little, but still he asked no questions.

"Once the device is activated, the gatekeeper appears, like a hologram in a holotransmission. In fact, talking to the gatekeeper is very much like talking to a person on a holo. The best ones are so versatile and responsive that it is easy to forget that one isn't speaking to a live person. But that is where the resemblance ends. A holocron is created for a specific reason. If it is a broad purpose, like storing knowledge for transmission to future generations, any Force-sensitive user can access its contents. If it is intended for only one user, only that person can activate that holocron.

"I have to ask you, Anakin - how did you come upon this particular holocron? Was it given to you directly?"

Anakin shook his head and then added, somewhat reluctantly, "It was hidden. My lightsaber began vibrating in a particular way when I got close. I wouldn't have found it otherwise."

"Well, then." Obi-Wan nodded. "That suggests that this device was quite specifically intended for you alone. It may have been programmed to remain quiescent until a designated time. The technology required to build one has similarities to that required in building a lightsaber, although it is of course far more complex. This particular holocron might even have been designed to harmonize only with your weapon.

"I have to say, this is the first time I have seen a holocron shaped like a pyramid. The ones I am familiar with have four or more sides. Color-changing holocrons are also rare." Obi-Wan rubbed his chin, studying the restlessly glowing crystal. "Let us see whether this one works in the same way as others."

Removing his hand from his chin, Obi-Wan passed it over the holocron. The crystal's inner light flared, becoming almost blinding.

"Ow!" Obi-Wan jerked his hand back, shaking it out as if he'd been zapped by a plasma bolt. It _felt_ like he'd been zapped with a plasma bolt.

A hologram of Dooku's face appeared, and grew eerily until it nearly filled the space between them.

"Welcome, Anakin," the face said. Then it swiveled to face Obi-Wan. "Jedi BEGONE!" it roared. Coming from a gigantic, purplish holographic image, the effect was quite startling.

The sides of Anakin's mouth twitched.

Obi-Wan shrugged. "See? The gatekeeper is a powerful, and discerning, guardian of the information within the holocron." He bowed mockingly to the simulacrum of the former Jedi Master, whose features he recognized from the huge bust that still graced the Temple library. "As you wish... _Sith._"

With a last glance at Anakin, whose entire attention was focused on the holographic face, Obi-Wan left the small room and gently slid closed the door behind him.

Safely on the other side of the door, he paused to take a deep breath and to wait until his knees stopped trembling before rejoining the others on the bridge.

Even for a Jedi, it can be hard to face a truth when you don't want it to be true.

Dooku - his Master's Master! - was one of the Fallen.

He collected himself and hurried to the bridge, demanding that it be cleared. Padmé protested, but Captain Typho whispered something in her ear, and she reluctantly left with the others. Eirtaé brushed by Obi-Wan with the barest whisper of a touch on his forearm. Moments later he again stood before the holographic image of the ancient Jedi Master Yoda: his Master's Master's Master.

Yoda listened carefully to what Obi-Wan had to say. When Obi-Wan was done speaking, he sat silently, his holographic image radiating pure Jedi composure.

"Long, the line of inheritance is, from one generation to the next," Yoda said at last. "Tightly woven, the strand of trust that binds them, one to the other. Painful beyond expressing it is, when that strand breaks, leaving the ends to drift."

So, he was not as composed as he seemed, then. No more than Obi-Wan.

"Dooku wants Anakin. He is cultivating him!"

"That he is."

"Master Yoda, we must prevent Anakin from joining the Sith!"

"Long have we foreseen this possibility for Anakin's destiny. Take action, we did, to prevent it. Know, we did not, that Dooku might be its instrument. Wrong, we were, in our belief that such gifts as Anakin's would not seek expression without training."

"_That_ is why you expelled him from the Order!"

Yoda's great round eyes fixed Obi-Wan's. Despite the static of the holotransmission he had the sense that he stood directly in front of the Jedi Master.

"Cautious, you must be, Obi-Wan. Cautious! Your impulse it is, to prevent this event at all costs. Arose out of a similar sense of urgency, did the Council's decision to remove Anakin from the path of training. But learned we have, by our mistake, that destiny is the strongest binding of all."

"Then ... nothing can be done?" Obi Wan's voice barely rose above a whisper.

"One thing, and one thing only, can change a being's destiny, Obi-Wan."

"What is that, Master?" Obi-Wan asked, bracing himself for the answer, dreading to hear it... _dreading_...

"Free will. His own free will."

_Ohhh._ The holotranmission hissed and crackled softly in the ensuing silence. Or was it the sigh of Obi-Wan's slowly released breath?"

"Not... death, then?"

Yoda scrunched up his face. "Like a Tathian serpent, destiny is. Stopped with a single stroke, it cannot be; cut off one head, and three grow in its place. Cuts short an existing path, does death, but forces, influences, actors connected with the emptied path may leap in to fill the void. Only by conscious choice, is a new journey created."

Relief, hot and sweet, ran through Obi-Wan's veins and shook his knees. _I won't have to destroy Anakin ... I won't have to ... thank the Force..._ It took a moment before he recovered enough to ask, "Then what am I to do here, Master?"

"Befriend Anakin, you must, while he finds his way."

Obi-Wan shook his head sadly. "Oh, Master Yoda. After what we did ... after what _I_ did to him... that is very unlikely."

"True friendship does not demand anything in return, Obi-Wan. Gives without asking, it does. A friend to Anakin, you must be, whether or not he responds in kind." The old Jedi smiled faintly. "Once before, you set out on this path. Escape your destiny, you also cannot, it seems."

Without realizing it, Obi-Wan had crossed his arms tightly against his body; a defensive posture if there ever was one. "There is no guarantee that I will succeed at this. In fact, it seems unlikely."

"Do everything in your power, you must."

Obi-Wan let out a sigh so deep it sounded like a groan. Master Yoda watched him patiently, resting his chin on the hands that in turn rested on his ever-present stick.

"And if I fail?" Obi-Wan ventured. "If Anakin joins the Sith..."

"Best, it would be," Master Yoda said, "if that does not happen."

Obi-Wan looked down, holding himself tightly. Once again, the Council had made plain that it was all on him - everything rested on him. An entire Council of Jedi Masters had failed, and yet somehow they believed that he might succeed? He couldn't imagine why. And he certainly didn't want to think about the consequences if they were wrong this time, too.

"I will do as you ask, Master Yoda," he murmured at last. He had never refused a task, no matter how impossible-seeming.

"Have faith in you, I do, Obi-Wan."

When Obi-Wan left the bridge, hurrying toward his cabin with his head down, in desperate need of solitude, Eirtaé met him in the corridor, where she had been waiting for him. Before she could speak, he shook his head, and hurried away.

Left alone with the strange device after having endured a lecture from Obi-Wan Kenobi (in fairness, it had been a decently helpful lecture, but still...); knowing that his planet was under threat, and that the threat might be none other than his teacher and mentor, Anakin was torn by so many different emotions that he hardly knew what to feel, much less what to think. He had even less idea what to say when it slowly dawned on him that the first move was his. After its outburst, the larger-than life Dooku-image remained silent.

Anakin cleared his throat. "I want to know what is going on here."

That seemed to do the trick.

"Greetings, Anakin," Dooku's image beamed again. "Congratulations are in order for having successfully completed your last test. Because you are alive, and you have succeeded in finding this holocron, you are now ready for the next set of lessons."

_Lessons? What? _"Lessons! I have no time for lessons! I want to know what is going on. Why is a fleet threatening Tatooine? Is it yours?"

"Now, Anakin, what would you say is the most important skill for the Force-user?"

"You're _serious_? We're doing a lesson right _now_? _Here_?"

"Pay attention. This is crucial. What is the most important skill for a Force-user?"

Anakin stared at Dooku-that-wasn't-Dooku. What _was_ this thing? How interactive was it really? Because it certainly wasn't listening to him.

"Well, Anakin? Surely you have an answer of some kind to propose?"

So it _was_ listening .. But only for what it was programmed to hear. Was that it?

_Useless piece of crap._

"OK. How about this: the most important skill for a Force-user is to not get blown up by a fleet that is threatening his planet ... OW!"

The moment the words were out of his mouth, something zapped him ... _hard_... on the tender side of his neck. _Exactly like that damned training remote,_ he thought, with a fleeting flash of sympathy for Kenobi.

"Now let us try again," the Dooku-hologram said imperturbably. "What is the most important skill for the Force-user?"

"Uh..." Anakin equivocated, rubbing the side of his neck, "... uh..." And then it hit him. "The ability to establish a connection with the Force," he said quickly, remembering his powerful first lesson on the _Serena, _which had almost cost him his lightsaber.

"That is indeed important, as you have learned. But consider this: how do you know when you have established such a connection?"

"Uh..." Once again, Anakin felt stupid. Somehow, Dooku always made him feel that way. "You ... just know."

"_How_ do you know?"

Anakin kept his hand on his neck, just in case. "You can _feel_ it. Things work better. Everything is easier, in a way."

The hologram nodded. "The signs are sometimes subtle, are they not? Difficult to distinguish?"

"Yes," Anakin had to agree. "That's why it was so hard to learn to trust in the Force. Unless you know what you are looking for, it's very hard to perceive."

Holo-Dooku smiled. "Exactly. So while the connection with the Force is crucial, there is another skill that comes first. The most basic skill of all."

Anakin stared at the familiar face. It seemed to stare back. Its expressions were perfectly responsive, just as if he was really talking tothe man himself. In spite of his frustration with the lesson, Anakin was intrigued by the programming that went into a holocron. Here was yet another interesting thing to learn...

"Well?" The face was frowning.

_Uh-oh._ Apparently he'd let himself be distracted too long. Keeping his hand on his neck, Anakin stammered out something... anything ... to prevent being zapped again. "Um... the ability to tell whether you're connected with the Force?"

"That is one way of putting it. Clumsy, but accurate in the largest sense. Because we deal with the invisible, the subtle, the most important skill for the Force-user is _discernment. _By this I do not mean only the capacity to identify things or to distinguish among them. True discernment is the ability to look into the very heart and nature of everyone and everything we encounter. To _see_ while also _perceiving_. To recognize in everything around us, no matter how mundane, its right place and meaning within the Force. Discernment gives us the capacity to understand not only the thing itself, but what is _behind_ it."

Well, that was pretty abstract. Anakin wasn't sure he understood what the holocron was getting at. If it asked him to restate all that, or worse, to offer specific examples, he'd get zapped for sure. He _was_ certain, though, that there was more to this lesson than appeared on the surface. He had that same sense of wariness, of heightened attention, that kept him safe in the desert, say, or warned him about other people's hidden intentions.

Anakin took his hand off his neck and leaned forward.

"I thought I do that all the time."

"You do it instinctively. You perceive more deeply than others because of your innate connection with the Force. But you must learn to do it _consciously_, waking moment of your life! When you look, you must see not only the surface, but what lies beneath. When you hear, you must hear beyond the obvious to the very harmonics of the Force. Everything you perceive with your ordinary senses is but a shadow on the wall. Reality - true reality, or the Truth - is not the shadow you see, but the light that casts it." The hologram's gaze grew even more intense, if that was possible. "This light - the _power_ - is behind everything. You must learn to know _the true nature of reality_."

Anakin scowled. This was not a lesson like the others. He didn't like abstractions. He liked practical lessons. What he liked even less was what he was feeling. He sensed shadows. Shifting eddies in the Force. Nameless caution twisted through him, making him sweat.

Anger, too, gnawed at him. He didn't know why.

"Then you, too, are a shadow," he declared boldly. "What's behind _you_?"

To his surprise, the hologram began to laugh. "What indeed? What indeed!"

The holocron began to glow as before, when Kenobi had tried to activate it, only the glow kept increasing until a sudden flare obliterated Dooku's face. Before he could think, Anakin's blue blade leaped out to smash away an energy bolt that could have done serious damage if it had struck him. The clash was blinding. Dooku's laughter hung in the air long after the light subsided.

"Your skills are improving," his disembodied voice said, sounding amused.

"Not fast enough," Anakin muttered, trying to slow his furious breathing. "What was the point of _that_?"

There was no answer. The holocron was once again a small object at the center of the table, glowing faintly with a distant inner pulse.

Anger, pure and raw, surged through Anakin. Faster than a rock lizard's tongue, his left hand shot out to seize it, to crush it in his fist. Diamond-hard facets cut into his palm. He squeezed harder, trembling fiercely, as if he could crush the inner life out of the thing. When blood began to drip onto the table, he finally slammed it back down on the tabletop and let go. The colors brightened, and Dooku's face rose up again.

"You're supposed to be INTERACTIVE!" Anakin yelled, shaking.

"Greetings, Anakin," the hologram intoned serenely, as if greeting him for the first time. (A new program? What WAS this?)

Anakin's blade emerged again, ready to destroy.

"I have a message for you about your mother."

The blade hung in the air.

"If it turns out that her condition requires new eyes, you should know that the best cloners in the Galaxy can be found on a planet called Kamino. Perhaps your Jedi friends can help you to locate it?"

The hologram vanished. The colors stilled. Once again, the holocron looked like nothing more than a museum piece, a curiosity from a faraway place.

Anakin's blade hung uncertainly above it a while longer before disappearing as well, leaving the small room cloaked in its usual dull silence.

Toward twilight of that long, anxious day on the _Veritas, _delicious smells began to waft through the corridors. The musical ring of fine dishes and cutlery being laid out drifted with it. It was the first time in many days that the entire Naboo contingent was together in one place. Primitive planet or no, looming invasion force notwithstanding, the Naboo were going to sit down to a civilized dinner. Danil had scavenged the best he could find of local provisions (the weekly black market had provided some surprising delicacies) and had slaved all afternoon in the small galley kitchen. It occurred to Padmé that she hadn't seen Anakin for several hours. Wondering whether he had left the ship without saying goodbye, she set out to look for him. To her utter relief, she found him on the bridge, bent over the navicomputer.

"There you are. I thought you might have gone."

Without looking up, he held out one arm to her. She crossed the bridge to him. The beckoning arm slipped around her waist, drawing her close to his side, while his other hand restlessly worked the flashing screen.

"What are you doing?"

"Have you ever heard of a planet called Kamino?"

"No... but it must be in the databanks."

"It doesn't seem to be."

She leaned over him to look. Her hair, which she had washed and left to hang loose, brushed the side of his face. He stilled, breathing deeply, and turned to look up at her. The expression in his eyes was ... well, he looked as if he were seeing her for the very first time. Wonder. He smiled. The sides of his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

"Dinner is almost ready. Will you join us?"

His arm tightened around her waist. She leaned into him.

"I lost track of the time."

His other arm came around her, and before she knew it, she was sitting sideways on his lap in the big navigator's chair, the skirt of her loose gown hanging over the side. He was still wearing his old clothes, but with the neck was open and the sleeves were pushed back, as if he'd had a good wash and not bothered to refasten them. He smelled faintly of fine soap.

"What's that?" she touched a red welt on the side of his neck.

He reached up to take her hand away. Held onto it. "Nothing."

"So ... dinner?"

"I don't know. I need to talk to Remy..." He broke off in mid-sentence and whirled the chair around to face the entrance to the bridge. Obi-Wan stood there. Anakin pulled Padmé a little closer; almost like a shield, she thought.

"Pardon the intrusion," Obi-Wan said politely. "Anakin, I have a message for you from Dax. The treatment of your young friend Lupie is complete. It seems that he will make a complete recovery. Dax is ready to see treat your mother tomorrow morning, if you approve."

Anakin let out a great sigh. "That is very good news. Thank you." He leaned down to Padmé. "I should go see him," he said quietly. "I'm sorry."

She nodded, slipping hastily off his lap. Padmé hurried past Obi-Wan, whose gaze followed her just a little, out of the corner of his eye.

When she had gone, Obi-Wan moved closer. "What are you working on?"

"I'm trying to find a planet that doesn't seem to exist."

"How do you know of it?"

"Dooku. The holocron."

"Ah. Do you... do you need any help?"

"It's a funny thing." Anakin leaned back in the big chair. "Dooku - the holocron, I mean ... said that I should get my _Jedi friends _to help me find it. What do you suppose he meant by that?"

"If you don't mind me asking, in what context did this come up?"

"He mentioned my mother." Anakin recited the holocron gatekeeper's exact words.

Obi-Wan sank down in the pilot's chair next to him, looking deeply throughtful. "I am quite certain that the MedLab that Dooku provided for you is capable of cloning required body parts."

"It is. I've read all the specifications."

They stared at one another.

"It certainly sounds like a cloaked message," Obi-Wan said at last, "but one whose meaning may not become clear until the planet is indeed found." He gestured toward the navicomputer. "Have you had any luck?"

Anakin shook his head. "None at all. It's as if Kamino doesn't exist."

Obi-Wan frowned. "Every known planet is in that database. Perhaps the name "Kamino" is a code of some kind?"

"He... _it_ ... said that it has to do with cloners."

"Cloners! This is strange indeed." Obi-Wan thought for a moment. "If you like, I will ask the Jedi archivists for help. We have resources unmatched in the Galaxy."

Anakin shrugged. "Sure." He stood up. "I'm going to go see Lupie and the guys. If you find anything, you know where to find me."

Obi-Wan nodded.

"Well," Anakin said, a little awkwardly, turning to leave. "Goodbye..."

His former Jedi Master stood as well, looking nearly as awkward. "You know, Anakin, none of this would be possible if you had remained a Jedi." He gestured vaguely toward the door to the bridge, where Padmé had disappeared, but Anakin knew exactly what he meant.

"You mean, friendship wouldn't be possible if I were a Jedi?"

"Friendship, yes. Great friendship. But not... this."

Anakin rolled his eyes and stomped off, this time without a shred of hesitation. Outside in the corridor he nearly collided with the woman called Eirtaé, who quickly stepped out of his way, looking a little flushed, as if she had been eavesdropping. For some reason, Anakin's face also felt hot. He nodded brusquely at her, and made his way to the hatch bay.

If he'd had a mirror, he would have realized that he was blushing to the roots of his hair.

For the third time that day, Obi-Wan spoke to Master Yoda. This time, they discussed the possible existence of a planet of cloners called Kamino.

"Clever, my old student is. Never to be underestimated. Possible it is, that Anakin's message is in fact meant, not for him, but for the Jedi."

"I thought so immediately, Master."

"More and more new pieces, this puzzle has. Bring them together, we must. Find your missing planet, I will." He looked sharply at Obi-Wan through the holographic static. "Told you that much, at least, Anakin did. A positive sign, that is."

"He only told me because he needed my help."

"A good beginning it is, Obi-Wan. Stay with him, you must. Help when he allows it. But take great care. For now, your constant companion, the Dark Side is."

"Not if I can help it, "Obi-Wan muttered, in a highly uncharacteristic outburst of of expressed opinion.

Master Yoda was still smiling when the transmission ended.


	22. Chapter 21 Games of Chance

To all my intrepid readers,

I really need to apologize for the long delay between chapters. I've been sidetracked before, but never like this. Real life has done a number on me this past year, to the point where I began to think of myself as "the former writer once known as geo3." For a while there, I could hardly compose a shopping list, much less craft a complicated fantasy.

This story always remained with me, of course. I love the characters. They kept nagging me, BEGGING me to finish, but every time I painstakingly churned out two or three sentences and strung them together, sithly demons would whisper to me that what I'd put on the page was flat, banal, pointless, complete rubbish. I'd hit delete and go back to thinking that I'd never, ever be able to construct a decent paragraph again, never mind a whole chapter. Bad times. Even though this not-writing felt even worse than writing badly, it took a while to drum up the courage to really get going again. Knowing that this insidious thing happens to a lot of people, even the greats, didn't help at all.

But life is nothing if not ever-changing, and what once seems impossible, can often, with time and perseverance, be wrestled back into the realm of the achievable. I did persevere, so here at last is the next chapter of "Fortune's Gate." I still feel a bit rusty, but I think that as I continue to work, it will get easier again. May the Force be with me until the story is done.

Thanks, as always, for reading!

Geo3

**Chapter 21. Games of Chance**

Even though the worst of the desert heat had passed, the hot flush in Anakin's face didn't subside when he slipped out of the _Veritas_ and hurried down its long boarding ramp to the pitted floor of the docking bay. Outside the soft, filtered air of the sleek ship, the hot fuel stench of Mos Espa's provincial spaceport was an unpleasant change. Wrinkling his nose, he pounded out onto the cracked stones of the marketplace, where the air was fresher but for the lingering stink of animals. The stalls had closed down for the day. Their tent-like coverings barely moving in the listless breeze, and the suns hung low in the sky, but still his face blazed. He missed Padme already, but he was glad that he had made his escape. As usual, one comment from Obi-Wan had spoiled everything.

_"None of this would be possible if you were a Jedi… none of this…_

… none of THIS…?"

Anakin's feelings about Padme were the deepest, most private part of him. He had never spoken about her to anyone - not to the gang, not to Owen, not even to Shmi (well, not much, anyway.) But the young warrior Queen from Naboo had been with him - the image of her, the sense of her - for all the years they were apart. Since the day he had left Naboo for the Jedi Temple, Padme had been the other half of every inner dialogue about his struggles, great and small. Hers was the cherished inner voice that had encouraged and consoled him through the desperate war years when he was lonely or afraid. She had been his conscience when he was wracked with doubts about what he was asking people to do in the name of freedom. _What would Padme do?_ he would ask himself._ What would she tell me to do?_ And then, when she had turned up at the farm - warm, real, and so much like the companion he had evoked and clung to all along – it only proved what Anakin had always known to be true: that she was a part of him, and he was a part of her. Whether they were arguing, colluding to protect his mother, plotting to ditch her guards, or talking seriously, being with her was the most natural thing in the world. When he reached for her on the ship she had come to him unhesitatingly. He hadn't been surprised. It had felt right because it _was_ right.

Until they were _noticed_. Until Obi-Wan's comment had made it clear that they were being watched, studied, monitored. With that awareness had come a new awkwardness, a sudden, painful sense of loss. What had been perfect and above all, private, had become an "all this" that others made inferences about and imagined they understood. The red-faced Handmaiden, the Jedi who had felt the need to comment on something that was none of his concern - in their eyes he read only judgment. He knew what they were thinking.

_She has no business being with me. I'm a desert rat, a pirate, a nothing. They can't wait to drag her away from here... away from me._

At the other side of the deserted marketplace, near the alleyway that served as a shortcut to the town center, Anakin's steps slowed. He desperately needed to see that Lupie was all right, but he longed just the same to run back to the _Veritas_ to steal Padme away from Obi-Wan and her prying staff. Maybe she would want to come with him to see Lupie and the others? He hadn't asked her, with Obi-Wan standing there…

Anakin stopped walking as the truth rushed up to meet him. It was a distraction. The busyness, the wanting to run here or there… it was all just a distraction. It wasn't Obi-Wan he was running from. Whether he thought back to the _Veritas_, or ahead to the medicenter, underneath it all lay the image that he couldn't shake off: the multitude of dots on the Naboo ship's viewscreens. Every dot was a ship, every ship, an armed attacker.

The flush in his face drained away.

The Naboo didn't know whose ships they were. They had been trying all day to identify them. Obi-Wan didn't seem to know either; or if he did, he wasn't saying. Either way, the Jedi clearly had no idea why a fleet had come to threaten a planet as insignificant as Tatooine.

Anakin stared up at the mild evening sky, his face now pale beneath the tan. He knew who was up there, as surely as he had known that there was something hidden in the MedLab that wanted him to find it. He was as certain of Dooku's presence as he had been on Geonosis. Involuntarily his hand crept to the pouch where the holocron rested against his hip.

_What are you doing here, Dooku? Are you here because of me?_

Something unpleasantly familiar prickled up his spine: a call, a summons. Of course Dooku was here because of him. Anakin didn't understand why he was the recipient of such focused attention, but he knew with every cell of his being that it was true. Dooku wanted something from him, and to get it, he was playing some kind of a game. A serious and very dangerous game, to be sure, but that was the only kind that Dooku played. Recent experience had taught Anakin that if he didn't play his part in it exactly right, people would get hurt. _His_ people. All the people he loved.

But… a FLEET? Why? It made no SENSE! Suddenly furious, Anakin picked up a loose stone and threw it as high into the sky as he could, as if it was a missile with which he could destroy the Serena and all her cohort. When he didn't see it come back down he threw another, and another, until the pitiable truth of the gesture brought him near tears. Tatooine was helpless against the power on display far above. All they had to throw against such a sophisticated enemy were rocks. As a people, as a planet, they didn't have a chance against an attack. Whatever Dooku wanted, he would get, because he was a bully, like the slavers.

_I hate you for this, Dooku!_

The prickling sensation grew stronger. The holocron vibrated faintly in its pouch. Even Anakin's sheathed lightsaber began to hum at a frequency just at the edge of hearing. _Come to me, Anakin_, it seemed to croon. _Come now!_

Anakin snarled, low in his throat, at the sky, the stars, at Dooku and his fleet, and at the whole universe beyond. His neck ached from looking up at the darkening sky. He finally lowered his head, twisting his neck from side to side, seeking relief. Beneath his feet, the stones were still bright in the last rays of the evening sunlight.

Footsteps echoed from the alleyway. Two men guiding a laden dewback trudged by, no doubt on their way to the edge of town, where travelers tended to make camp rather than braving the wastes at night. The men, both strangers, nodded to Anakin in a friendly way. He raised a hand in greeting. They ambled on, soon disappearing beyond the marketplace.

Alone again, Anakin kicked at the stones. Those men had no idea what awaited them. For them, today was a day like any other. Realistically, there were probably very few on Tatooine who were aware of the existence of Dooku's fleet. The spaceport was nearly deserted; after a quiet word from Obi-Wan, the spaceport staff had diverted incoming traffic to avoid spreading panic. The other towns would get reports of the unusual activity in space, but it would take time for word to spread in a place where comms. were limited. Kenobi was counting on that. He wanted time to figure out… whatever.

Anakin took a deep breath, drinking in the quiet, the precious normalcy of the present moment, and glanced again toward the spaceport. He could tell Obi-Wan a lot about Dooku and what he was up to. Perhaps he should. But then what? Whatever Kenobi did in response, however well meant, would only provoke chaos and destruction. Padme would be whisked back to Coruscant with a death mark still on her head, while Anakin's world went up in flames.

This wasn't up to Kenobi. It had nothing to do with him. Anakin knew that, even if Kenobi didn't. To avert disaster, he would have to respond to Dooku's summons.

_But not yet. Please, not tonight. I'm not ready._

He closed his eyes, immersed in the calculus of war. If Dooku wanted him, he was unlikely to risk destroying him in an all-out attack. He would hold off, but not for long. If his summons failed, he would find another way. Dooku was powerful in the Force. If he wanted to, he could track Anakin anywhere… unless… Anakin's eyes flew open. If he became quiet in the Force… if he could somehow dampen his presence down to read like anyone else's, he could buy some time while Dooku searched for him. It was a trick he'd been practicing off and on since Geonosis. With luck (and hopefully, a little skill on his part), everyone on Tatooine would have at least one more undisturbed night.

_And I will, too. I'll have one night …to say goodbye._

With a last, longing glance toward the spaceport, Anakin closed his eyes and used the full power of his imagination to visualize himself still, invisible, hardly existing. He poured everything he had into the effort, and when he felt he could do no more, he headed toward the alley where the merchants had come, his strides lengthening until he was running full tilt toward the Medicenter.

o

"You dim-witted, obtuse, deluded boy!" Dooku hissed between his teeth, pacing the bridge of the Serena. "Why don't you know enough to come when you are summoned?"

"Sir?" A nearby protocol droid reacted Dooku's comment. They were the first words his Master had uttered aloud in some time. "Is there something you need?"

"Get out!" Dooku snarled. The droid fled on shiny feet.

Dooku stopped in front of the navscreens, which gave him all the information one could ever imagine, except the one piece he needed. Anakin was like a flickering light; sometimes he shone as brightly in the Force as a homing beacon, and then he would wink out, leaving no trace. Evidently he was learning to subdue his Force signature. When he wanted to, he was quite good at it. Unfortunately, it seemed that tonight, when Dooku most urgently needed to find him, he wanted to be invisible. And now he was.

In a rare indulgence of temper, Dooku slammed his fist down on the nav. console so hard that it hurt. As if his random, violent gesture had sent a signal, the com. screen suddenly lit up. On it, to his utter dismay, appeared the flat, green, ugly face of the creature Dooku absolutely did not want to see. _Not yet. Not yet!_

"Well, Dooku?" The Neimoidian said haughtily, without preamble. "We have arrived. You may give the word to proceed."

_Proceed? To destroy Tatooine? Certainly not, you green-tinged slime!_

"Viceroy Gunray," Dooku countered with barely disguised displeasure. "I would be pleased if you would remember that this fleet is under _my_ command. The word, as you say, is _mine_." He held up his hand for silence before the Nemoidian could sputter a retort. "As it happens, your tardiness in joining this fleet has required us to change the timing of our assault."

Actually, that was a lie. The word was NOT his; it was his Master's. And Gunray's arrival had put him in a very difficult position.

"My apologies, Count Dooku," Gunray replied with equally transparent insincerity. "We had a series of unexpected delays. But as you can see, we are here, so I suggest we get on with it."

"Delays. How unfortunate for you," Dooku said coldly.

He knew every detail of the complications the Trade Federation had faced in assembling their flotilla of starships. He knew, because he had arranged them all – every miscommunication, every instance of missing personnel, even a violent and massively destructive meteor shower on Neimoidia Prime. Anything to slow them down, once he had learned that Tatooine was the fleet's target. With the Trade Federation's contingent of starships, the hastily assembled CIS fleet was complete, and Dooku had no leeway left to evade the order that he knew would come at any moment:_ Destroy Tatooine._

It was absurd. It was a waste of time and resources. He could see no strategic advantage in such an act, none at all. The planet was little more than a rock, an oversized asteroid, in a field of equally valueless flotsam far outside the political reach of Coruscant. Its destruction would have no impact there. If the Death Star were completed – if the destruction of the planet could be accomplished as a single act of instant obliteration – the shock wave would tear through the Galaxy. THAT would get people's attention! But the ordinary, time-consuming, sector-by-sector destruction of this sparsely inhabited planet's surface, amounting to little more than the razing of a few mud huts and the annihilation a few handfuls of ordinary people, would hardly raise a ripple anywhere among the civilized worlds. It wasn't a place that mattered to anyone.

_Except to Sidious – may the dark heart of the Force swallow him forever – and to me._

The stalling game was a dangerous one when played with someone like Darth Sidious, but there was no going back. Dooku already had crossed a fatal line by secretly training Anakin. If Sidious knew, or suspected his plans, demanding the destruction of the boy's planet made a twisted kind of sense as a test of Dooku's loyalty. It was also a good way to wreck his relationship with Anakin, should the boy survive. But things with Sidious were never that simple or straightforward. _What,_ Dooku asked himself for the thousandth time, _does Darth Sidious want with this place? Why did he imply that its destruction is part of his game with the Jedi?_

Even if Dooku succeeded in unraveling his Master's plans within plans, it was unlikely that the knowledge would save him from Sidious' wrath. Anakin was his only chance for survival now. Together they could defeat Darth Sidious; of that he was certain. He only needed to delay the attack until he secured Anakin's service and loyalty. Unfortunately, the choice to join the Dark Side could not be bought or forced. That level of commitment came only from within.

How odd, he reflected, that despite his great powers, in the end his fate would be determined by the free choice of a single sandy-haired, clear-eyed young barbarian with too much independence and authority for one so young, and far too little personal ambition. In the training room, Anakin was fiercely driven by the need to prove his worth; away from it, his attachment to his family and his people was strong enough to pull him away from the path of glory and fulfillment.

_Well,_ he thought, if he had to threaten Tatooine, he might as well make the gambit work in his favor. _Let us see what choices Anakin is willing to make to save the ones he cares about._

Dooku glowered at the image of the brown, barren planet on the viewscreen as if his displeasure alone could make it give up its prize.

_You know I am here, Anakin, just as whatever worthless Jedi you're hanging around with down there knows. Come here to me! Get off this insignificant rock, so we can be done with this place and move on!_

"Why do you frown so, Count Dooku?" Nute Gunray's voice drew him out of his reverie with the subtlety of a dull razor on a dry face. "Hopefully you have not wasted our valuable time and money in this endeavor, whose urgency or importance we hardly understand."

"Your obligation under our agreement is to come when I request your assistance, Viceroy," Dooku snapped. He no longer cared whether his irritation showed. The treaty with the Trade Federation was made. If the cowards backed out, he would have the pleasure of ridding the Galaxy of their particular brand of intergalactic mercantilism, and he would enjoy doing it. "Nowhere does our agreement give you license to express your opinion on the subject."

"Well!" Gunray huffed. "You have certainly changed your tune from the wheedling and flattery you exhibited before we signed your agreement. If I had known…"

"All you need to know, Gunray, is that you are under my command. Now stand by."

He switched off the com. feed with unnecessary roughness and stood motionless, putting the final touches on a desperate plan.

There was no way of knowing when Sidious would order him to proceed. He had already stalled the operation for days. He was out of time.

Disobeying Sidious was not an option. If the order came, he had to carry it out.

Therefore, he had to make more time. He could think of only one thing that might give Master the slightest pause in going forward with the planet's destruction, and even that was not certain. But at this late stage of the game, it was the only option left to him.

He had to go down there himself. If Anakin did not know enough to come to him, he would have to fetch him. If Sidious wanted to save himself the long chore of training a new apprentice at this critical juncture, he would have to settle for punishing Dooku rather than destroying him. Darth Tyrannus shuddered physically at the thought of what that would entail, but it was worth it. It was worth any amount of suffering – even the kind Sidious so much enjoyed inflicting – to become free.

He activated the com. viewscreen again, revealing Gunray's startled face.

"Count Dooku? Is the order given?"

"I have an errand on the planet's surface, Viceroy." With the ghost of a smile, Dooku added, "I leave the fleet in your hands, under the caveat that you take no action until I return. I would prefer not to be destroyed along with the rabble below."

He switched off again before the baffled Neimoidian could say a word.

_There,_ he thought, striding toward the lifts that would take him to the docking bay. _Should the order come in my absence, let that green-blooded vermin take the first edge of Sidious' wrath. I'll gladly take the rest, as long as I have my prize._

_o_

Dinner on the Naboo ship was a quiet affair, despite Danil's efforts to evoke the civilized comforts of home. Every false spark of cheer quickly died out in the heavy atmosphere that blanketed the ship. Danil and Vespé tried to lighten the mood with their usual banter. Captain Typho kept glancing surreptitiously toward the bridge, where he clearly would have preferred to be. Rhea sat beside Padmé like a small ghost. Eirtaé, and even Kenobi, made the occasional effort to keep the conversation going, but Padmé didn't even try.

Like the others, her thoughts were focused on the fleet that was gathered above. Unlike the others, her musings were occupied by the story Anakin had told her the night before in the medicenter: about Dooku and his training, about Gunray's price on her head, about the droid factory and most of all, about the clear signs that the Separatists were preparing for war. They were, in fact, quite well prepared for it, and it was possible that the conflict she had feared for so long would begin at any moment. _Here. Now. With an assault on Tatooine._

She glanced at Obi-Wan, wondering how much he knew about the rising tide of events, and when he planned to discuss it with everyone. If he didn't say something soon, she would.

Her mind wandered over the last few weeks. How long had it been since the poisoning in the Senate building? For how long had she been relying on the Jedi and her staff to carry out even her most basic duties? How long had it been since she had handed over her responsibilities, and above all, her authority, to others? Looking around the table, her eyes came to rest on Eirtaé, who had so nearly been elected Queen in her place those many years ago. She would have made a worthy Monarch. Throughout the recent ordeals, Eirtaé had not once wavered in strength or determination to carry out her duties. _Not like me,_ Padme thought. _I have been willful and undisciplined. I allowed myself to stray from my allotted path._

Eirtaé looked up, having felt Padmé's glance. "Is something wrong, Padme?"

Padmé's head felt oddly weighed down, as if she was wearing the heavy headdress of office. Reflexively, she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. She was the duly appointed Senator from the Naboo system, and it was time – past time – to take up her role again.

"When we have finished here, I would like to meet with the full staff."

It was hard to miss the varied expressions of surprise around the table, however well veiled by good manners. Obi-Wan in particular watched her intently, with narrowed eyes. She stared straight back at him.

"We need to pool our information, and decide on a strategy. Master Kenobi, you have been in communication with the Jedi Council all day. I think it is time you disclosed to us their thinking on the matter of the fleet and our position here."

After a fraction of a pause, Obi-Wan inclined his head in acknowledgement. "And you, Senator? Have you information to share with the rest of us?"

Eirtaé's fleeting glance at him told Padme everything she needed to know. They – her staff, her team – were beginning to wonder where her loyalties lay.

"I do have information to share."

The expressions around the table changed subtly. Captain Typho looked suddenly relieved, despite his underlying worry. Young Panaka was biting back an outburst, most likely along the lines of "what is there to discuss? We need to get off this planet NOW." Vespé was tense, Eirtaé, suspicious. Obi-Wan's expression gave little away, but gaze had softened. Young Rhea just watched everyone wide-eyed.

"Would you like Dax to join us?" Obi-Wan asked.

"Absolutely."

Padmé pushed away her plate, effectively ending the meal, and directed Rhea to clear away the remains of dinner, mostly to keep her busy. Captain Typho escaped back to the bridge, where he would remain until called. Obi-Wan followed him, with a last, deeply thoughtful glance at Padmé. Resisting a bizarre urge to stick her tongue out at him, she merely raised one eyebrow and nodded graciously. The others remained behind, but Danil and Vespé made a hasty exit after a meaningful look from Eirtaé. Then only the Senator and the Handmaiden were left, facing one another across the freshly cleared table.

"How are you feeling, Padmé?" Eirtaé asked. "Are you well? We haven't spoken much, since you began your … ah … adventures out in the desert." She waved in the general direction of "out there" with one delicate white hand. It was a polite question, but loaded.

"Don't patronize me, Eirtaé. You know that I have been perfectly well for some time. What I have not been … and it is this which disturbs you … is either predictable or, to your way of thinking, reliable. I dumped my responsibilities onto your most capable shoulders, and went, as you might put it, adventuring. I fully understand your concern about my suitability to resume leadership of this team."

"To my way of thinking?" Eirtaé repeated slowly. "I should think that, as Naboo who hold highly responsible positions, we would share a way of thinking, along with, eh, a certain sense of … dignity."

Padme grinned, tight-lipped. "So I'm undignified, am I? Brace yourself, my friend. My adventures in the desert have taught me just how freeing a little local immersion can be. It sharpens the mind, bolsters the spirit, and brings priorities into good, sharp focus."

Eirtaé stared at her. "It's that...that … _boy._.."

"That boy has a name, Eirtaé, just as you and I do. His name is Anakin. And he has a thing or two to teach all of us, including, I think, your Jedi."

Eirtaé reddened slightly. It might have been anger. "I hardly see how your romantic escapade has anything to teach the rest of us."

_Romantic escapade._ Padme turned the words over in her mind. _Is that what this is?_ She saw Anakin's face, his smile, and the way his eyes lit up whenever he looked at her. She thought how securely she fit under his arm when he drew it around her shoulders, and how safe she felt when he did. She thought of...

_Well._

She may have reddened a bit herself. Yes, romantic. But behind it all, she saw other things. A sea of lights in the night, and a caravan under fire. She saw the squared-up shoulders and drawn face of a young man who carried a whole world on his shoulders. She saw the eager, beseeching faces of the people who looked up to him, and the wounds he had borne silently as long as he could.

She saw nobility. Kinship. A destiny like hers.

She would not forsake him in his time of trouble, any more than he would forsake her.

"Think what you like, Eirtaé. I can't make you see what I see. In the meantime, either swear your allegiance to me or leave my service. There is no middle way."

Eirtaé stared at her, shocked. This was blunt speech of a kind never heard among Naboo's elite, but Padmé felt no latent urge to veil her meaning in diplomatic niceties. They were at war, or would be soon. War called for speed, directness, and clarity of communication.

"I...I don't know what to say." Eirtaé was rarely at a loss for words. It didn't suit her.

"Do you accept me as your leader?" Padmé pressed her. "Can I count on your loyalty?"

Eirtaé stood up abruptly, her color high. "You are the chosen Senator of the Naboo! Supporting you is my highest obligation! And I have always... always...been loyal to you, professionally and personally!

"Well, then." Padmé leaned back. "That is all you need to say, because to me, one word from you is stronger than any official binding oath." She paused, and then added more gently, "Must I remind you that despite our ancient and somewhat archaic forms of protocol, ours is a Democracy? Don't hesitate to speak your mind, Eirtaé, but do it to my face. I need you at your best, which is as a clear thinker and superb strategist. If we are not at war already, we will be shortly. Be my General. I have no one else."

Eirtaé's hands were clenched at her sides, but she spoke calmly enough.

"I doubt that is true, but I will stand by you as always. Be assured of that."

"Thank you, Eirtaé." Padme took a deep breath. "And now, please give me some time alone until everyone is assembled. I need to think."

A moment stretched out before Eirtaé turned to leave. "It's about time," she muttered, just before the door swished closed.

_And... she's back._ Padme lowered her forehead to the table, resisting the urge to bang it once or twice. Battle won. _Now all I have to do is to save Tatooine and stop a Galactic war._

_o_

Dax was outside the back of the MediCenter, smoking a good cigar and relaxing against a rough wall that was still warm from the evening suns, when a commotion inside the building made her decide to go back in. From a distance, it sounded like an argument or the beginning of a fight. She stowed her stogie, checked her sidearm, and went inside.

There was mayhem in the ward, all right, but it was a cantina-style party, not a scuffle. Everybody who could get up was huddled around young Lupie's cot. The visitors were standing on top of whatever furnishings they could pull together to get in closer. The sick were yelling from their cots to join in the general conversation.

Dax strong-armed her way through the cluster to get to her patient. He'd been out of surgery for only a few hours. She didn't want him stressed. To her surprise, she found him sitting up – sitting up! - eye to eye with young Skywalker, who was hunkered down cross legged at the other end of the narrow cot. That explained everybody's excitement. Everywhere Skywalker went, he drew a crowd.

She studied them both, her former patient and the present one, with a practiced eye. Skywalker looked and acted as good as new – a couple of days before he had been in serious danger of losing his arm, and now he didn't favor it at all. A few hours post-surgery, the Lupie kid was wide awake with good color and seemed to be without pain, even when he laughed heartily, which he was doing a lot.

She'd like to think she was that good a medic. But really, the MedLab was a miracle. She thought she understood everything about its functioning, but she couldn't explain the consistent results she was seeing, especially the speeded-up healing. For the hundredth time, she wondered where it had come from.

She dropped a hand on Lupie's shoulder, surreptitiously checking the pulse in his neck. "Feeling all right?"

The boy nodded happily.

"How about you?" She looked at Skywalker. "How's that shoulder?"

"Perfect, thanks." He rotated it to show her. "Feels normal."

"Good." She paused. "We were looking for you today."

Skywalker looked instantly guilty. "Sorry I wasn't here, Lupie. There's a lot going on... I haven't had a chance to tell you yet..." He stopped talking and looked around at everyone because they were all grinning like idiots, including Lupie.

"Tell him, Dax," somebody said.

"Go on, Dax."

"All right, what's the story here? What am I missing?" Anakin demanded to know.

Dax was about to speak when a movement at the periphery of her vision changed her mind. She nodded briefly and waited. Looking startled, Anakin suddenly whirled around to look into his mother's warm brown eyes.

Shmi smiled and held out her hands to him. Without any doubt, she was seeing him perfectly.

"Mom! When did... I didn't know... are you all right? Can you see me?"

"I am well, Ani. I can see perfectly." The woman's speech was fluent, Dax was happy to note. Another miracle for the records. Somebody ought to be keeping records. These outcomes were hardly to be believed.

"Mom, I'm sorry I wasn't there..."

Anakin leaped off Lupie's bed looking more boy than man – all elbows and knees – and gathered his mother into a wild hug. Dax flinched until she saw that Shmi seemed to withstand the manhandling quite well.

"It's all right, Ani," Shmi murmured from somewhere near her son's shoulder. "Everything is all right now."

Anakin's back was to Dax so she couldn't see his face, but his body slumped noticeably at his mother's words. Interesting. Shmi might be all right, but everything else wasn't, not by a long shot. Despite his cheerful façade, the boy was carrying a burden for sure.

Somehow, she wasn't surprised when her com. sounded with Kenobi's signal. Whenever Skywalker appeared, the Jedi seemed to be right behind him.

Patting Lupie briefly on the shoulder, Dax left the ward for the quiet of the MedLab.

"Dax here."

"Are you free? We need you on the ship."

"I'll be right there. Is anyone hurt? What kind of kit will I need?"

"No one is hurt. Just come for a briefing."

"Right away, boss."

A briefing. It had been a while since they'd had one of those. She'd been acting – and feeling – like the Medicenter was home. But it wasn't. She worked for the Jedi, and the Naboo, and she'd do well to remember that.

Dax glanced through the doorway to the ward beyond, taking a long look – a last look? – at the cheerful scene. That was the hardest thing about being a medic, especially a field medic. The good parts tended to be brief and far in between.

Something told her this might be the last good part for a long time.

o

Later that same quiet Tatooine night, a very drunk man lurched out the back door of the cantina to relieve himself in the shadows of an alley. It was a filthy habit, one he could not even have imagined sinking to before coming to this uncivilized planet. But the local beer was strong, and nobody seemed to care what he did, so out he stumbled. After weeks stuck in this awful place, his sense of personal dignity had eroded in the same measure as his pride. For the first time in his short but (he like to think) illustrious career as a CIS front man, he had failed miserably in his job. The locals would not rally to his cause. They were … he swayed, and just saved himself from falling by finding a handy nearby wall to steady him … un-rallyable. Un-interested in anything he had to say. _Un-cultivable… cultible … cultivatable…_

_Whatever._

He sighed, leaning into the wall for strength. Nice wall. Solid wall. When he hugged it, the world didn't spin quite so much. He swayed there a while, not minding the dents the roughcast made in his unshaven cheek, when a sound behind him startled him out of his reverie. It wasn't so much a sound as a … feeling… He squinted into the unlit alley, seeing nothing. Then, quite shockingly, a figure seemed to form out of the very darkness: a tall man, dark robes, neither cloaked nor hooded. A light face, lighter hair and a beard … my, he looked neat and tidy.

And honestly, he looked familiar.

The drunken man snorted. Must be a hallucination brought on by the mud beer. Nobody in this hellhole looked quite that… authoritative. "Halt! Who goes there?" he demanded, giggling a little at the cliché.

The apparition moved closer. "I seek someone."

So the man was real. And that voice… he struggled to focus. Replayed it in his head. Stars, it sounded familiar, like something he had heard many times… but where?

"Who are you?"

"Who are _you_?" the Voice demanded in return.

There was something about it that discouraged giggling. He felt himself growing soberer by the moment. Also, he felt compelled to answer.

"My name is Dorn Wieder," he managed, with relatively little slurring. "I am only a visitor to this planet, so I am not sure… that is, I am not certain…" (his old form of speech was quickly coming back) … that I can help you find who you seek."

There was a long, black silence, during which Dorn clung ever more tightly to the wall.

"Dorn Wieder?" the mysterious man rumbled, as if dredging up the name from an old, neglected file. "CIS organizer Dorn Wieder?"

"Yes … Yes! You know me?"

"Not in the slightest. But you should certainly know _me_."

Dorn stared. The shock of growing comprehension (and growing fear) very quickly began to nullify the effects of many, many mugs of mudbeer. "Count… Count Dooku! Is it really you? How is it possible that you are here, in this place…" Oh, gods, now the Count would ask how the organizing effort was going, and Dorn would have to confess his failure. Oh, this was terrible, terrible… and yet, it was so thrilling to meet the man himself at last!

Dorn was so torn between excitement and dismay that he forgot to wonder why his hero was alone and sneaking around in a dank alley in the middle of the night, accosting strangers.

"You know Anakin Skywalker," Dooku stated.

"Skywalker? Um, yes, everyone knows him. He is quite famous in these parts…"

Count Dooku stepped so close to Dorn that he could feel the great man's breath on his face. "Take me to him."

"N-now? It is very late, and I don't really know where he stays…"

He stopped with a startled squeak when a hand like durasteel grabbed him by the back of his tunic and pulled him away from the safety of the wall.

"I could… I could ask in the cantina… but they are very protective of him there. Nobody will talk, I've tried… where are we going, sir?" Dorn was being dragged; he had to trot to keep up.

"Ask again," Dooku growled, and shoved poor Dorn back through the cantina's back door. "Do not fail me, Wieder."

Shaking now, Dorn crept back to the bar, turned to face the room, and began, in a wavering voice, "does anyone know where Anakin Skywalker is?"

A roomful of faces turned toward him, none of them with very pleasant expressions.

"Why?"

"Who's askin'?"

"You still here, offworlder?"

"Go home!"

Dorn cleared his bone-dry throat.

"It's not me who is asking… there's a gentleman here, another offworlder…"

From the dark recesses at the rear of the cantina came a strange hum that resolved into a searing red line of light. The packed room became dead silent. Count Dooku strode into the center of shocked rabble brandishing a glowing red light sword in one hand and holding a small pouch in the other.

"Good people! I will pay a solid tenweight of auridium to the person who brings me to Anakin Skywalker tonight. Immediately. I have urgent business with him."

The gasps were audible. A single tenweight of Auridium was the difference between poverty and wealth on Tatooine. But they hesitated. People in various states of inebriation shuffled their feet, looked at one another, glanced sideways at the bag, or looked at the floor. But no one spoke.

Finally a young man with a strong, broad face stepped forward. "I can take you to Anakin. I'm his brother."

After a long moment, the light sword disappeared. "Do so," Dooku rumbled.

(A shadow slipped out the back of the cantina and ran, every muscle straining, toward the medicenter. Another followed soon after.)

"Anakin's generally out in the wastes hunting at this time of night," Owen said to the mystery man. "I know some of his favorite haunts. I'll have to take a speeder and search, unless you want to wait until morning."

"I will go with you," Dooku said. "We leave now."

Owen shrugged. "Whatever you say."

"I'll just stay here," Dorn murmured nervously, but apparently Dooku had already forgotten all about him. His usefulness was over.

An hour and several more mugs of mudbeer later, Dorn Wieder had made drastic changes to his career plans. No more fomenting revolution for _that_ man. He shuddered. He didn't know what to think of Count Dooku now. Inspirational? Hardly. More like insulting. He certainly lacked the common touch. Anyway, no more politics. It just wasn't worth the sacrifices. The Black Market seemed to offer a pretty good living out here on the Rim. Maybe he'd even try his hand at piracy, like everyone else around here. Might be fun for a change.

"Cheers," Dorn said to no one in particular, and drank deeply.


	23. Chapter 22 To Thee I Give

**Chapter 22. To Thee I Give**

"Who is missing?" Padmé Amidala, in full Galactic Senator mode but for her clothing (unlike Eirtae, she had insisted on remaining comfortably dressed in a soft leggings-and-tunic outfit that suited the local climate), looked around the _Veritas'_ cramped, now crowded meeting space, and immediately answered her own question. "Obi-Wan. Is he on board?"

"Of course, My Lady." Typho seemed surprised at her question. After all, she had called a meeting. Where else would he be? "He is on the bridge, delayed in conference with the Jedi Council. Should I get him?"

"No. Let him finish. We will need a full briefing on the content of that conversation." She seated herself at the small round table. Eirtaé, Dax, Vespé and Captain Typho took it as a cue to do the same, taking care to leave the last stool empty for the Jedi. Danil and Rhea stood against the wall by the snug cabin's entry. "I expect that our Jedi companion is well informed in all areas, more so than I am, so let us use this time for reports."

Obi-Wan's importance in their small group was such at this stage that Padmé's decision to begin the meeting without him elicited uncomfortable glances and fidgets all around.

"This is for my benefit," Padmé insisted. "I want to know what everyone is working on. I need to know what you know. Dax. You first."

Dax did as she was ordered, giving a succinct summary of her activities since the completion of the Medicenter, that finished with, "… so the last of the men Master Kenobi saved up on the ridge is taken care of. I figure the young one will be ready to go home tomorrow. I've also finished the surgery on Shmi Skywalker." At Padmé's quick glance she added, "Her eyes are fine, Senator. The MedLab's clone function is the best I've ever seen, but we didn't even need it. Her son will probably take her home today."

"Anakin saw her?"

"He was there when I left to come here. In fact, they were havin' quite a party."

Padmé bit her lip. "Then it seems he hasn't mentioned the invasion force to anyone. It would be hard to imagine anyone partying if they knew."

"I'd say that's a fair assumption, Ma'am."

"Have you any talk about it around the medicenter or in town? Rumors? Whispers?"

"Not a word so far."

Padmé nodded thoughtfully. "Thank you, Dax. And thank you for all your hard work."

The Medic looked faintly surprised. "Thanks, Senator. It's nice to be buildin' somethin' for once, instead of just tryin' to patch up what's been destroyed."

A shadow passed across Padmé's face. "Peace is a precious thing, Dax. Treasure it. I suspect not many will have the opportunity in the times to come."

"I'm afraid your assessment is correct, Senator." Obi-Wan Kenobi stood in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest. All eyes turned to him. When Padmé gestured to the empty stool, he sat down slowly, as if he carried a great weight. The room was as still as an indrawn breath.

"What news from Coruscant, Obi Wan? Are we at war?"

"I believe so, Senator. There has been no public announcement yet, but the Jedi Council expects one soon. Evidently the invasion force that threatens Tatooine is one of three. The other two fleets are massed at far distant points of the Galaxy."

"Where?" several people burst out at once.

"That is the strange part. Each threatened planet is in its own way as remote and as politically insignificant as Tatooine. And yet massive invasion forces are mounted against them."

"Do we know the commanders of these other invasion forces?" Padmé had begun to use her official voice and intonation. The voice that served as a mask. It brought everyone in the cabin to quiet, focused attention.

"Both are known associates of Count Dooku. The fleet that threatens G'rho, out in the vicinity the Sshi-Rhu Cluster, is said to be commanded by a General Grievous. The one threatening Nirauan appears to be under the command of a known criminal named Asajj Ventress. Grievous is a shadowy figure. We know more about Ventress, none of it good. But both are known to be Count Dooku'a creatures."

"What is the purpose of these attacks on the very margins of the Galaxy?" Eirtaé wondered out loud.

"Other than to incite war?" Obi-Wan rubbed his forehead in a gesture of weariness, then seemed to realize he was doing it, and stopped. "The Council assesses it as a move designed to split Jedi forces, and to weaken our effectiveness and our ability to protect the Capital." He glanced ever so briefly at Padmé. "Without a centralized army of the Republic, local military must be mustered to fight the invading Forces, but Jedi are required in each instance to assure centralized command and coordination." He went back to rubbing his forehead again. "It is quite brilliant, really. The more new arenas of conflict open up, the more scattered and ineffective our efforts will be to reassert the peace."

"Only for a time, Obi Wan," Padmé said dryly. "I suspect that the Senate is voting for the establishment of a Grand Army of the Republic as we speak."

"Even so," Captain Typho ventured, "assembling and training such an army will take quite some time. Perhaps more time than we have."

Vespé was frowning, something she rarely did. "We must find a way to get you out of this sector, Senator. If these attacks are truly directed against the Republic, your position is …" she looked around the table, "… much more precarious than we had originally thought. You represent the Republic. You are the enemy. If your presence becomes known …" she looked at Eirtaé, seeking support.

She got it. Eirtaé fixed Padmé with her trademarked 'ignore me at your own peril' look and went for the jugular. "It is no longer a question of your personal preferences, _Senator Amidala. _Aside from the danger to you, your presence here will become a political storm that would undermine any diplomatic efforts the Chancellor might attempt with the CIS."

Padmé placed both hands flat on the table in front of her and looked around at the faces that ringed her, lingering longest on Obi Wan's. He stared back without expression.

"That's it?" she said at last. "Collectively, that is your only recommendation – that I somehow be smuggled off planet and escape? Where to, exactly? There is no safe place in a Galaxy that will shortly be torn apart by war."

There were muffled murmurs of protest.

"It will be difficult, Senator, but I'm sure we can find a way!" Danil chimed in with the untrammeled enthusiasm of one unfamiliar with the realities of war.

Padmé ignored him. "Has it escaped anyone's notice that chance … abetted by a few unusual decisions on my part, I admit… has brought us to the perfect position to influence the outcome of these most perilous events?"

Silence. Everybody in the small cabin froze.

"As Master Kenobi has so succinctly pointed out, we are not yet at war. We are, to the best of our information, in the midst of a series of ploys – game moves, if you will – designed to weaken the Republic's defenses, create panic and confusion, and perhaps, to push others into making irrational actions that will cost us the diplomatic advantage. I, for one, would prefer to put my efforts into preventing these outcomes." Her tone hardened. "Since, as fortune would have it, I am already _here."_

"Padmé …no!" Eirtaé warned her fiercely, all protocol forgotten. Padmé ignored her, too. It was Obi Wan she spoke to, in a low voice that seemed to exclude anyone else.

"You know I'm right."

"For myself that is true. As a Jedi Knight, I am duty bound to see what can be done here. The Council has said as much. But you, Senator… no. You cannot be risked."

"The Galaxy has many Senators, Master Kenobi, few of us terribly useful, given the current circumstances. So it would be better if you were to see me not as yet another inadequate Senator, but as a unique resource."

Padmé's voice remained low and even. Obi-Wan said nothing, but his eyes never left her face.

"Of all the places in Galaxy he could be, Master Kenobi, Dooku is _here_. And I think you know why, as well as I do."

The others leaned forward to hear better.

"He wants something from Anakin. I don't know what. Nor, for your information, does Anakin. I suspect it has something to do with Anakin's innate abilities. I'm sure that you, and the Jedi Council, are of the same opinion."

Silence. Attention. Focus.

"Anakin, on the other hand, trusts very few people, least of all Count Dooku. But he does trust me. You know what that means, don't you, Master Jedi? It means that I am your _only_ conduit to Anakin, and through him, to Dooku."

Obi Wan looked down at his hands, which were folded on the table in front of him.

"Captain Typho!"

So rapt was the Captain, so intensely occupied with listening to the conversation between his Senator and the Jedi, that her sudden attention to him caught him entirely unaware.

"Er… Senator?"

"Have you finished analyzing the fleet? Do you have a list of the participants?"

"Uh… yes. Here." The good Captain passed his datapad to Padmé. "You will note that the most recent arrivals are Trade Federation ships."

Padmé's eyes narrowed. "Indeed."

"We have monitored transmissions as best we could. We have reason to believe that Nute Gunray himself has joined the fleet."

"Indeed!" Padmé said again. Then, "Are we certain of Dooku's location? Could I contact him if I wanted to?"

Eirtaé gasped again. With a guilty glance in her direction, Captain Typho retrieved his datapad and consulted it for a moment. "The ship we believe to be the Count's personal yacht is among the ships of the fleet. The _Serena_, registered out of Corellia, is the only non-military vessel in the group."

Obi-Wan closed his eyes. The silence he generated was so dense that everyone turned to look at him.

After a moment, or two, or three… no one really knew… his eyes flew open again and he was on his feet.

"Master Kenobi?"

"Perhaps you are not my only conduit to Count Dooku after all, Senator. He is here… on the planet!" His hand flew to the hilt of his lightsaber. "Remain here, all of you! I trust that you understand how essential it is that you do not leave this ship!" And he vanished out of the cabin, moving at approximately the speed of thought.

Shocked expressions ringed the cabin in his wake. Eirtaé looked utterly stricken. "How does he know that? How can he possibly know?"

Padmé sighed. "They can… sense… one another. All of them." _All of them._

For a few moments, nobody moved. Then Padmé stood up. "Captain Typho," she said with determination, "Come with me to the bridge."

o

The desert night was as clear as it ever had been or ever would be: a perfect, glorious tapestry of glittering stars. By moonrise, the sands were so well illuminated that Owen could see for miles. That also meant that his speeder could be spotted from about the same distance. He'd been in a cold sweat since leaving the cantina with the stranger who sat next to him exuding dark silence. Moonrise had only made it worse.

_Idiot! What was I thinking? _Owen asked himself again and again. But that was just it. He hadn't been thinking. He'd just reacted to the idea that Anakin was under threat. It was what they had always done for one another; covering each other's tracks, dodging and weaving, lying and creating distractions where needed. It was instinctive. But his man – this man was not like any other.

Because it was night, Owen had automatically gone for the big armored speeder, the heavy eight-seater. Popper and Kit and a couple of others had of course tried to come with them, but the hard man with the red lightsaber (Owen assumed that's what it was, although he had only ever seen Anakin's, and that shone blue) had shoved them away before they could climb into the back. So here he was, alone with the silent stranger in the desert at night, with no destination other than "away from Anakin." It was a bad situation; so bad that he almost hoped they'd run into a Tusken scouting party. At least that would be a fight, and with any luck, the stranger might just get himself killed. _So would I,_ Owen reminded himself, but even that seemed less scary than what would happen once the stranger figured out that he was, quite literally, being taken for a ride.

He glanced at the nav. system, saw that they were more or less equidistant between Mos Eisley and the secret cave, and figured it was time to circle gradually north in the direction of Mos Espa. At least there he might find some people to help him once they arrived and the stranger figured out he'd been lying about Anakin's whereabouts. It was his only chance…

"Stop now!" the dark man ordered.

Startled, Owen slowed, but didn't stop. "It's not safe to stop in the wastes," he began to explain, but the man merely waved his hand in the air and the speeder's engine died right then and there, as if it had been switched off.

Owen stared at him in astonishment, still clutching the shifter in his sweaty fist.

Without explanation, the man leaped out the speeder – he was incredibly nimble for one so old, some part of Owen's spinning brain noted randomly – and took up a stance behind the speeder, arms crossed and cloak furling in the night breeze, facing back the way they'd come.

Great. They were sitting targets for marauding Tuskens. _Be careful what you wish for._ There wasn't a ridge for miles, but all around, sand dunes swooped wide and high, leaving plenty of valleys in which the Tuskens could hide. Even the armored speeder wasn't protection enough against a close-range attack. Owen thought of shouting to the stranger to get back in, but the sound would carry. He wasn't about to get out to talk to the man, to make him see reason…

Suddenly it was obvious what he should do. He should let the stranger be crazy all by himself.

Owen hit the starter and the speeder roared to life. But before he could shift, the engine died again. Panicked, he tried once more. Again the engine roared briefly, then died.

And then the stranger was right beside him, peering inside.

"Don't bother," the man said. "I need you here. Besides, your attempts to re-start the vehicle have already alerted the desert people. I suggest you arm yourself."

"Sh'spit!" Owen swore, and dived into the back seat to retrieve the heavy cycler rifle. The Tuskens were always keenly interested in anything that sounded like a vehicle in trouble. "Aren't you going to help?" he shouted heedlessly to his passenger, who once again stood behind the speeder, facing back toward Mos Espa.

"I'm certain you can manage," the man said. "I'm busy." He went back to standing behind the speeder like a statue with a furling cloak.

_Unbelievable._

Owen swore again, this time in several local dialects, and picked up his electrobinoculars to scan the horizon. Sure enough, in no more than a few minutes he saw movement at the top of a sand dune to his left. _Let it be Jawas,_ he prayed, to no one in particular. But it wasn't. Even in the moonlight, the cluster of Gaffi sticks was unmistakable.

_Anakin, brother, I hope you appreciate what I do for you._

_o_

As humanoids go, the faces of Nemoidians are among the least expressive. This often hides the fact that they tend to be very excitable, a trait that shows up in their gestures, their body language, and their general demeanor. To an experienced diplomat like Senator Amidala of the Naboo System, Viceroy Gunray's reaction to her appearance on his viewscreen was everything she could have hoped for. He was shocked, all right. Dismayed, certainly. But best of all, he was afraid.

Padmé had been counting on the fear. For all their economic power, Neimoidians had always been cowards. It was pleasant to see that her appearance had created the desired effect.

Beside her, out of range of the comm. screen, Captain Typho's fingers clenched on the arms of the co-pilot's chair as if he wished he could wrap them around the Neimoidian's throat.

"Senator Amidala! What are you doing here?" Gunray sputtered. "You are supposed to be…" He stopped.

"Dead?" Padmé filled in helpfully. "Well, yes. Several attempts have been made on my life. But you know about those, don't you, Viceroy?"

"I don't know what you mean! Your presence here on this remote planet was merely a surprise…"

Padmé let him blather on for a while longer, relishing his unease, until she finally cut in, "Never mind, Viceroy. We both know the wages of power. This is not a time for lies. We seem to have a situation here."

Gunray seemed to perk up when given leave to drop any pretense of concern. "A situation? For you, perhaps, Senator Amidala, in your position of vulnerability on a planet that is about to be destroyed." He gestured enthusiastically. "I was not aware that you were here, but perhaps Count Dooku was. How clever of him. This may prove to be a most unfortunate time for you."

Padmé smiled. It took some effort, but she did it. "Really, Viceroy? Then why do you suppose your good friend Count Dooku is on the planet at this very moment, seeking a deal with some influential locals?"

"A deal, Senator?" Gunray said more stiffly. "I don't know what you mean."

"No," Padmé said nonchalantly, leaning back in her chair. "I see that you don't."

The Neimoidian glanced briefly over his shoulder. Padmé made a shrewd guess as to what he was doing.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Viceroy. I sincerely doubt that the Count would appreciate being disturbed."

"But I…"

"Listen to me well, Gunray. We haven't much time." Padmé leaned forward again, planting her booted feet firmly on the durasteel floor. "What would you say if I were to tell you that on this planet – on this barely populated, impoverished desert planet – there exists a completely new technology so important, and so necessary throughout the Galaxy, that whoever holds the rights to it will be assured of undreamed-of wealth and power?"

The Neimoidian stared at her with that flat, expressionless face, but the edges of his elaborate collars trembled. "What technology is this?" he grated at last.

"Something so new that it doesn't have a name yet. But think. What is the most important resource in existence? What is the one thing that is equally necessary for all life?"

Still Gunray stared. Padmé suppressed a smile when she thought for a moment that he was going to guess 'auridium.' That would be just like him. But for once, he had the sense to keep quiet.

That meant he was taking her seriously. Good.

"Oh, come, now, Viceroy. What does a desert planet need most?"

"There is … a technology… for producing … water?"

"Not producing, exactly, but… oh, all right. For the layman, yes, that will do. There is a technology for the provision, shall we say, of abundant water, even given a harsh geology like Tatooine's. It was invented here, and the only person in the known universe who understands it and can replicate it is here on the planet… and about to be destroyed, it seems, along with his invention. By you."

Gunray's face twitched.

"And that person… that is the person whom Count Dooku is meeting with?"

"Precisely."

"And you, Senator Amidala. How is it that you know of this?"

Again Padmé smiled. It cost her another huge effort, but she did it.

"The inventor happens to be a friend of mine. A very _good_ friend." She forced herself to stare at the Neimoidian's dead-looking eyes and not blink. "Count Dooku, on the other hand, is not. I don't care for people who threaten my friends' planets."

Gunray made a sound that might have been a snort. "So, I am the lesser of two evils? You prefer to deal with me than with Count Dooku despite our … ah little altercation some years ago?"

_And despite the price you put on my head, you ugly pond scum?_ Padmé thought, but not a trace of her fury showed on her face.

"Furthermore," Gunray droned on, "what gives you the authority to negotiate in this matter, especially if Count Dooku is already speaking with the inventor himself?"

"Because, Viceroy, my friend also doesn't like people who threaten his planet. I know that he would look kindly upon the person who managed to resolve this… situation. As it happens, he was actively looking for a distributor for his technology before your fleet showed up."

"The Trade Federation is the largest, most powerful such association in the Galaxy! He would do well to come to us with this technology. Count Dooku may be many things, but he is not a professional merchant!"

Padmé waited for the thing that would inevitably come out of Nute Gunray's mouth next. Gods, but the creature's brain revolved slowly.

"Of course," he added, clearly thinking himself sly, "were we to take on distribution of such a valuable property, we would need, in all instances, the full support of the Senate."

And… there it was. He was really such a disgusting creature, but mercifully predictable. Padmé looked modestly down at her nails. "I would of course place whatever influence I have at the service of this great enterprise. For the sake of my friend. You understand."

Beside her, Typho seemed to be having difficulty breathing.

"Of course," Padmé added brightly, "all of this depends on everyone remaining alive. And there is the small problem of potential planetary destruction. Tell me, Viceroy, whom did Count Dooku leave in charge of the fleet in his absence?"

"Me," Gunray said, sounding almost surprised. "He left me in command. But … what can I do? The Fleet's orders come from …." He stopped abruptly.

The hairs rose up on the back of Padmé's neck. So… not Dooku after all? Was it possible that there was someone else behind him? She didn't dare glance at Typho, whose chair creaked with strain.

When Padmé spoke next, her voice was as soft as a sheathed blade. "Tell me now, Viceroy Gunray. Do you have the authority to deal with me on this, or have I come to the wrong person? My time is short, and precious."

If a Neimoidian face could show emotion, the Viceroy's would have been a pitched battle between greed and fear. Both seemed to ooze from him, even at that distance.

"You may deal with me, Senator Amidala," he gritted at last. "But whatever we do, we must do quickly."

Beside her, Typho moaned faintly.

"Well done, Viceroy." Padmé leaned forward. "You won't regret your choice. Now, here are my terms…"

o

Owen Lars was a seasoned fighter, but he had never found himself at such a disadvantage in a confrontation with the Sand People. Because of his dispute with the stranger (_because of my stupidity! _he thought again, fiercely) he was wide open, a sitting target for the raiding party. As the first shots rang out from the top of the dune to his right he ducked down beneath armored speeder's small windows and tried to guess the size and strength of the party. How many were there? Were they clustered together or had they split? Could he safely slip out the other side of the vehicle where he could maneuver, or was he surrounded?

From where he sat, the shots against the vehicle's reinforced sides sounded like explosions, jarring his bones and making his ears ring. Their accuracy was also unnerving. The Tuskens must be close. If only he could see out without getting his head shot off.

_Shoot the other gu_y! Owen urged the Sand People silently. _Why focus on the speeder when he's standing right out there in plain sight? _But the blasts against metal continued. Owen was beginning to wonder whether the stranger already was dead when another sound – a kind of whine, followed by a dim reddish flash that briefly lit the windows - told him that he wasn't. So they were targeting the crazy man, too. It would have been nice if the stranger with the red lightsaber cared enough to defend the speeder as well as himself. He seemed to be doing quite well at the moment, despite his exposed position. But evidently, the offworlder cared nothing about the basic etiquette of the desert that stipulated you fight your common enemy together _before_ you fight each other.

Owen raised his head just enough so that he could peer through the windscreen, only to fall violently back in the shock of a blast that left a web of shatter lines through the reinforced plastisteel. Another direct hit like that and it would break through. It occurred to him for the first time that he might very well die this time. Really and truly… DIE. The realization struck him so hard he could barely breathe. He didn't want to… it wasn't time… _wait… no… WAIT!_

The speeder began rocking from side to side. Why was it rocking? How was it…? Owen desperately clutched the cycler rifle with one hand while protecting his head from banging against the console with the other. If this kept up, he'd get his head bashed in or break his neck for sure. Why was… the speeder… rocking …? _OW!_

The vehicle seemed to fly up into the air, then crashed down again on its side, with the armored roof top facing toward the Raiders. The dull red light flashed outside again, followed by a brighter flash that looked white or blue, but Owen couldn't be sure because he'd hit his head badly when the speeder fell over and blood was pouring into his eyes. _Dead,_ he thought just before he blacked out. _I'm dead._

_o_

Padmé sat still for a long moment, her hands clasped tightly together, while staring at the blank screen on the console where a moment before, the Viceroy of the Trade Federation had agreed to all of her terms but one. Of course, that one was the crucial one, but still.

"My Lady," Captain Typho, who dared at last to speak, rasped beside her. "What have you done?"

"It seems I have bought a truce for Tatooine." Her knuckles were white. "At merely the price of Anakin's birthright."

"That is not the only price, it seems." Typho's voice escalated from a rasp to a growl. "That … water technology, or whatever it is that you just sold to the Trade Federation…" He turned to glare at her. "Does such a thing even exist?"

"Anakin says it does."

"He SAYS…" The growl nearly turned into a roar, but the good Captain caught himself and tuned it down a notch. "I see. And has … Anakin… authorized you to sell it on his behalf?"

"Not exactly." Padmé still stared at the screen.

"And how would … your _friend_, Anakin … feel if he knew that you not only sold his invention, but effectively offered yourself as a hostage by agreeing to negotiate the contract in person?"

_Surely he would thank me for saving his planet?_ Padmé told herself, even though the images that flashed through her mind suggested otherwise.

Padmé looked her Security Chief in the eye at last. To say that he did not look happy would have been a gross understatement. For a moment, he looked as if he might throttle her himself. "Captain, I know you think this is a foolhardy gambit…"

"_Think?"_ Typho lost the last shreds of his composure. "In all my days, this is without a doubt the most irresponsible … risky… _insane _thing I have ever seen you do!"

"I know." Padmé nodded soberly. "I cannot ask any of you to come with me. The risk is mine alone. But before we part, I need you to please find me a vessel that I can pilot myself…"

"No!"

"What?" Padmé stared at her security chief in shock.

"No, Milady. I will NOT find you a vessel that you can pilot yourself. The very idea!"

"Captain, please!"

Typho seemed calmer again. Almost like himself. "I am coming with you, Senator, and so are the rest of your bodyguards."

"You can't! You heard what he said. I come alone, or the bargain is off."

"We are your Guard!" Typho reminded her stiffly, looking as incensed as if she had asked him to betray the Queen. "I can speak for everyone except Dax, Milady, and she will be allowed to make her own choice."

"I don't want to go alone, Captain. Of course I don't. But look at the stakes! I _must_ succeed."

"Then leave it to me, Milady," Typho said with surprising gentleness. "We will do what must be done, but you will not be alone. We will find a way, I promise."

Padmé had a brief, satisfying image of what might transpire if Captain Typho were to encounter Viceroy Gunray in person. It wouldn't be pretty. Despite her best efforts to prevent them, Padmé's eyes filled with grateful tears.

"Thank you, Captain. I'll make it up to you… if I can."

"No need, My Lady…" Typho paused. "Except, perhaps, for one small favor?"

"Anything."

The Captain managed a pained flicker of drollery. "_You_ deal with the Jedi when he finds out where we have gone."

Padmé smiled faintly. "Consider it done." _If we survive._

Typho nodded, suddenly avoiding her eyes. He didn't say anything, but she knew that the unspoken thought had passed between them.

_Dear Gods, _Padmé prayed. _Take me if you must, but let my people survive. Let this be all on me._

_o_

The sand had barely settled when Dooku sheathed his blade. Anakin's lightsaber still burned in his hand, lighting the surrounding carnage with a faint blue glow. His blade burned as his spirit burned, with mighty, force-bending outrage and ferocity. It was a grand sight to see. Not a Tusken was left alive, and Anakin had slaughtered most of them.

"You nearly killed my brother!"

"I can assure you that he is alive," Dooku assured him calmly. With the most casual of gestures toward the heavy armored speeder, he caused it to shudder, then to rise, creaking with strain, until it stood upright again. Inside, Owen moaned faintly. "Your quick thinking in knocking over the speeder saved him. Well done, Anakin."

"Why didn't _you_ save him? Why did you put him in harm's way in the first place?"

"He offered to help me find you," Dooku said dismissively. "The Tuskens arrived all by themselves." Then, with uncharacteristic impatience, he added, "You do know what the _real_ threat is, don't you? To your brother? Your family? Your planet? Why are we still talking about _this_?" With a single gesture, he dismissed the skirmish as if it had been nothing. "I should not have had to come find you, Anakin. I should not have had to go to this trouble to draw you to me. You should have sought me out the moment you sensed my presence!"

Anakin finally switched off his blade, but his tone was no less combative.

"Why are you threatening my planet with your fleet?" He stepped closer. "What do you want from me?"

"Very good." Dooku nodded approvingly. "Your questions are the right ones, and as you suspect, they are linked. Unfortunately we don't have time for a long lesson. There is time only to tell you a series of essential truths, which you _must_ accept and absorb deeply, without doubt or question." He held up one hand and enumerated his statements by counting on his fingers with the other.

"_One._ I am a Sith Lord. Of Sith, there are always two. The other is the Master, I am merely the apprentice."

Anakin's eyes widened, but when he opened his mouth, Dooku quickly moved onto his next point and his second finger.

"_Two._ It is my Sith Master who ordered the annihilation of your planet. I am trying to prevent it. He also has set in motion all the events necessary to trigger a Galaxy-wide war. The destruction of Tatooine is only the first move in his massive plan that has been ten years, perhaps more, in the making."

Again Anakin tried to speak, but Dooku cut him off.

"Just listen! We have precious little time." Third finger. "_Three._ My Sith Master is the most powerful, dangerous person in the Galaxy. The only way to prevent this war is to kill him. No Jedi is his match. Even I cannot defeat him alone. I can, however, destroy him with the help of one other – you. _Only_ you. Together, there is no doubt that we can overpower him."

Anakin stared, his face a mask in the moonlight.

"_Four._ I do not control when the order will come from my Master to destroy this planet. It could come at any moment; it could have come already. What I can do – what I shall do for you – is to delay the attack long enough for you to get your people – whomever you choose – off the planet in time. I can offer you ships and assistance to evacuate them as quickly as possible."

"_Five. _In return for this consideration, I want your commitment to join with me in my quest to destroy Darth Sidious, and to save the rest of the Galaxy from Tatooine's fate."

When Dooku had finished talking, Anakin stood in the starlight like an ancient statue, old and cold, bathed in moonlight with its feet buried in sand. Eons seemed to pass in his vast, primordial silence. Even Dooku could not read the eddies in the Force around him.

In the speeder, Owen moaned again.

"No," Anakin said at last, his voice rusted and hollow. "And yes."

Dooku waited desperately, a shell, a husk waiting to be filled, his trademark equanimity utterly gone.

"Here are _my _terms, Dooku: nothing happens to Tatooine. No one has to leave. No one gets hurt. That is not negotiable. If you don't comply, I will die together with my planet, and you will certainly die by the hand of your Master. If you ensure that no harm comes to Tatooine or anyone on it, I will come with you and help you destroy him."

"I accept," Dooku breathed quickly, filled with emotions that he had not experienced for years. They sang along the unused paths to his heart, they shouted in his blood: Joy! Fear! Despair! Hope! He was awash in feeling. It hurt. He couldn't breathe. He fought his emotions, fought his way to calm again, all in a few moments' silent struggle. But he was changed. He felt _alive_. The future was his… at last.

"Come then," he said, moving swiftly toward the armored speeder where Owen was calling out Anakin's name.

Anakin followed. There was no place else to go.

When the speeder had roared off in the direction of Mos Eisley, the stars shone down on the bleak landscape of the sand and the dead as they always had, and as, perhaps, they always would.

Something moved on the crest of a nearby dune. A head rose up from beneath the sand, followed by a pair of shoulders, arms, hands, a torso; all shedding sand like a waterfall as a man unburied himself and took several deep breaths. Pocketing his rebreather, the Jedi walked around the battlefield once, studying the carnage and communing with the Force. When he had learned all he could, Obi-Wan Kenobi leaped into the light speeder he had left half-buried, and raced off into the desert after the others.


	24. Chapter 23 The Gate

**Chapter 24. The Gate**

"Please stop sniffling, Mouse," Padme asked, more sharply than she had intended. "This gown won't fasten itself."

Rhea was trying, she really was. But when it came to dealing with fussy formal garments quickly and efficiently, Eirtaé had no match.

"Where is Eirtaé, anyway?"

"I'm so sorry, My Lady." More sniffles. "She asked me to help you dress. I don't know where she went."

Padmé turned away from the sight of Rhea's blotchy face and looked longingly at her comfortable Tatooine clothing, which lay crumpled on the floor. The shadier the business, the more proper one's presentation had to be. It wouldn't do to appear before Nute Gunray in anything less than Senatorial splendor.

Somewhere far away in the back of the _Veritas_ a loud, rhythmic thumping had been going on for some time. Padmé didn't know what it was, but she wished it would stop. And she wondered where Eirtaé was. It was time to go, and there were still matters to be dealt with.

"Here, let me do this." Padme snatched back her sleeve, where Rhea had been fumbling with fasteners. "You run and find Eirtaé for me. And I need Artoo."

"The…. the droid?"

"Yes, the droid! This instant! Go!"

Rhea fled. Moments later, the astromech trundled into the small cabin, whistling. The faraway banging continued.

Padme frowned at the droid, then glanced at the door. Still no Eirtaé. No witness, then. Very well. Closing the door and locking it, she turned back to the droid. "Record this message, please, Artoo. Top security encryption. Sole and exclusive recipient, the Queen of the Naboo. Delivery parameter, the event of my death."

She paused for a long moment, collecting her thoughts.

"If you receive this message, Your Highness, I am dead and Galactic War has surely begun…" Padmé proceeded to set out for her Queen all that she knew about the people and the events in which she was now enmeshed. For much of the information provided she had to cite Anakin Skywalker as the source, but added a final request (on Naboo, final requests were treated as sacred) that the young man from Tatooine remain safely anonymous to all but the Queen. In closing, Padme asked for special favors for her personal staff that would secure their futures for all time.

"End of message, Artoo."

The droid whistled in acknowledgement, holographic beam switched off.

The moment of silence that followed was perhaps the most desolate of Padmé's life. She had to leave now. No coming back, probably. Not ever.

_Move!_ She ordered herself, and yet she lingered.

_One more thing_.

"Artoo, there is another message. The second is for Anakin Skywalker. Same encryption. Same delivery parameter." She straightened her shoulders and consciously smoothed her features. The second message was harder to begin. Before the beam switched on again, Padme had to quickly dab away a rebellious trickle of moisture that threatened her court-perfect makeup.

"Anakin, if you are alive and receiving this message, it means that I have failed in my mission to stop the destruction of Tatooine and that Galactic war has begun. I am so sorry… I'm sorry…." Padme struggled to get hold of herself. "Despite your great personal losses, I beg you to consider the fate of innocent people everywhere when you decide what to do next. You are an extraordinarily gifted man, and not, I think, destined for a small life nor small deeds. If you could find it in your heart to take up my fight for peace and justice, for compassion and equality throughout the Galaxy, my death would be a hopeful beginning rather than a meaningless end. Help them, Anakin. Please fight on the side of all those who have no champion of their own. You are my only hope."

Padme swayed a little. "As for me, all I can say is thank you. You helped me to find my way again when I was lost. I had forgotten my life's true purpose. I had become afraid. With you, I remembered. With you, I found my courage. I only wish …"

"My Lady!" A voice shouted in the corridor outside.

"I wish…"

"My Lady! We must go this instant!"

When the cabin door swung open, the holobeam was gone and Padmé stood next to the droid looking calm and splendid.

"Of course, Captain Typho. I am ready."

She swept past him into the corridor, the R-2 unit close at her heels.

o

In the narrow confines of Dooku's golden sailship, Anakin's shoulder was practically brushing Dooku's, but he could not have been further away. After agreeing to join Dooku he had not asked a single question, but had withdrawn to a place so far inside of himself that the distance between them felt like the span of a galaxy. The boy still had sand in his hair. Wrapped in his rough cloak, he sat with his face turned away from Dooku. Perhaps he was staring out at the stars, perhaps at nothing; even the Force offered few clues to his state of mind. There was anger, of course, which Dooku had anticipated, even counted on. But the anger that pulsed from Anakin was not the hot, easily exploitable anger of fiery youth. Anakin's anger was cold. Quiet. Controlled. It was the anger of a Sith – the deep source of Sith power.

The trouble was, it was not something that Dooku had taught him.

It was also something that discouraged conversation. They flew on in silence, even as the giant forms of starships began to fill the viewscreen. Anakin's gaze shifted from one to the next while the tiny sailship passed among the great vessels like a speck of dust among mountains. When at last they reached the _Serena_ and the docking data appeared on the navicomputer, Anakin studied that also. When the sailship whispered to a halt in the Serena's echoing docking bay, Anakin leaped out and managed to cross the entire bay side by side with Dooku, even matching him stride for stride, without once looking at him.

_So be it, _Dooku thought. _That anger will be needed._

He led the way to the Serena's eerily silent automated bridge and indicated a specific place where Anakin should stand. With a few economical gestures, he activated theholovid transmitter and a life-sized image of the Viceroy of the Trade Federation, Nute Gunray, appeared in a conical holobeam in the center of the bridge. In his appointed spot, Anakin remained well outside of Gunray's vision and awareness, although for his part, Dooku experienced every stab of the young pirate's suppressed hate.

"So, Count Dooku," the Nemoidian began without preamble. "Was your meeting on the planet's surface successful?"

Already short-tempered, Dooku took his time answering. It wasn't just that he enjoyed keeping the Viceroy waiting; he needed to work out why the flat-faced pest was acting as if it knew his business. He had not mentioned a meeting, only an errand. Why did the odious Neimoidian seem so smug?

"What meeting, Viceroy?" he sniffed at last.

"I have it on reliable authority that you had some important business to transact on the planet – business that you have no intention of sharing with your partners in the Confederacy!"

_What reliable authority? What is the idiot talking about? _ "My dear Viceroy." Dooku affected a bored tone. "Who has been disturbing your narrow little world with lies this time?"

The excited Neimoidian couldn't hold himself in check. "Lies, you say! _You_ are the liar, Dooku! _You_ are the one angling to make a large personal profit before this planet is destroyed!"

"I have no idea what you are talking about." It was disturbingly true.

"I know all about it," the Neimoidian sputtered incomprehensibly. "I know of your plan to acquire the water technology, but you will not succeed!"

At this point Dooku would have dismissed the Neimoidian as a raving lunatic were it not for a sudden wave of emotion from Anakin, who otherwise remained quietly in his corner. Dooku's eyes narrowed.

"I do think you are misinformed, my friend," he suggested crisply. "Our mission here is one of war, not commerce. I was merely ascertaining the safety of one of my operatives before we make our move. What is it that has distressed you?"

"Your deceit!" The Neimoidian howled again. "But I have the measure of you now, Dooku. Moments from now I will have the full rights to the technology you seek, and your game will be at an end. The only thing destroyed here will be your plan!"

"Viceroy Gunray!" Dooku stalled, his mind racing. "What has happened in my absence to disturb you so?"

There was a commotion of some kind behind Gunray in the holobeam. Another Neimoidian came into view and whispered something inaudible next to Gunray. The Viceroy turned his head away, but Dooku thought he heard him say, "Bring her aboard." Gunray turned back to face Dooku, something like glee contorting his flat face. "We are finished here, Dooku. Your coalition is finished. Once the others know what I have to offer them, they will abandon you as well."

The coalition? Did that unspeakable creature mean to imply that the confederation Dooku had worked a decade to stitch together in support of his Master's plan for total Galactic domination was about to fall apart over… over what, exactly?

Dooku found himself in a hell of incomprehension. As Darth Tyrannus he was unmoved by the worst extremes of evil and misery. The only thing left in creation that he could not bear was being left in the dark, being played as a fool. Sidious knew this, and used it against him mercilessly. That was why Sidious had to be destroyed. And now here was this… this _worthless Neimoidian_, making him feel a_s idiotic as the most ordinary of life forms_, and it was _not to be borne! _ And Anakin, _who belonged to him_, somehow was part of whatever was going on behind his back! He, Dooku, was a _Sith Lord,_ who could be bested by no one, was commanded by no one, was _not to be jeered at or despised_… He already had raised his fist to summon the Force to squeeze the worthless life out of that green piece of pond slime, to watch him _choke to death in terror_ _and confusion_, without so much as a hand around his disgusting neck, when Anakin suddenly stepped forward and spoke to the Neimoidian_ WITHOUT PERMISSION!_

_He DARES! He DARES! _ So violent was Dooku's rage that he was ready to strangle Anakin, too.

"Viceroy Gunray. I am Anakin Skywalker, inventor and owner of the water technology. May I ask who is negotiating for me?"

The shock of surprise was enough to stay Dooku's hand, if not his wrath, so that both Anakin and the unwitting Neimoidian continued to breathe. For the moment.

"It is an honor, Skywalker! If your technology does all that Senator Amidala assures me it can, the opportunity for profit will be quite beyond your imagining. Let me assure that whatever amount Count Dooku has offered you is far less than you will receive from the Trade Federation. You must remember how well connected we are throughout the Galaxy, how well placed to distribute your technology to the Galaxy's furthest reaches."

Anakin smiled crookedly, making Dooku want to knock him sideways. "Your proposal interests me greatly, Viceroy. But I'd like to speak with the Senator."

Gunray stared for a moment, probably as puzzled as Dooku was about what Anakin and Amidala could say to one another in plain sight and hearing of the two parties who were supposedly competing for … something… that Anakin had to sell.

_He told me nothing of this! _Dooku's hand was a rigid claw by his side. The other twitched toward his lightsaber.

"As you wish. Hold, please." Gunray vanished, leaving his side of the transmission empty. Dooku turned to Anakin and hissed between his teeth, "What is this? Are you mad? You are MINE to command!"

Outrageously, insufferably, Anakin ignored him, his whole being apparently focused on the flickering holobeam. Dooku grasped his arm viciously. Anakin twisted out of his hold. Half an instant later Anakin's arm was bent violently behind his back, seconds from breaking, and Dooku's red lightsaber was at Anakin's throat.

"Unhand that man, Count Dooku!" Gunray reappeared in the picture, shouting furiously. Behind him, incongruous in Senatorial splendor, her face as expressionless as a mask stood Padmé Amidala of Naboo.

A shudder went through Anakin. "Go ahead," he hissed at Dooku through a sweat of pain. "Fight your Master alone. I don't care."

_Sidious. The coalition. _Dooku's rage retreated in the same measure as his fear surged. What was wrong with him? He was behaving irrationally. He was so close to his goal – he must not err. He must not!

With one last vicious twist of Anakin's arm, Dooku set the boy free, sheathed his weapon, and donned a demeanor of icy composure.

"Calm yourself, Gunray. Skywalker is my apprentice. Lessons are mine to dole out where and when needed."

"Your... your _apprentice_, Dooku?"

The idea of another Sith Lord in the making had a satisfying effect on Gunray, who cowered visibly. Amidala, however, seemed unsurprised. Dooku began to wonder just what Anakin had told her about him. About their lessons together. How much had he confided to her?

_Anakin must trust her very much. The bitch._

And then Amidala bowed. Formally. In exactly the right degree for greeting ..._ an_ _equal_.

_The bitch!_

"Greetings, Count Dooku," Amidala said smoothly. "Greetings, Anakin. It seems that we have a number of important topics to discuss."

Four times that woman had escaped her death sentence. Four times! Bitterly, Dooku looked his failure in the eyes and nodded frostily, the minimum correct response. The entire left side of his body, the side next to Anakin, was beginning to feel physically cold. The boy's unconscious power seemed to be uncoiling within him, fueled by Force-knew-what kinds of tangled emotions. For the first time, it occurred to Dooku to worry that it would be released too soon. The boy had to stay calm until it was time. He had to be controlled...

_For that to happen, I first have to control myself,_ Dooku admitted to himself finally. And at last, his Mastery returned. His hands unclenched. His brow smoothed. Most importantly, the Force wrapped itself around Anakin like a plasma shield, insulating Dooku from the chilling effects of boy's untrammeled fury.

"I think I understand what is happening here," Dooku said smoothly to the figures in the holobeam. "Viceroy Gunray, the purpose of my trip to the planet's surface was solely to retrieve my apprentice before our attack." He gestured gracefully toward the towering column of resentment at his left. "Whatever Anakin and his people have to sell is of no interest to me at all, you must believe that. My relationship with Anakin is that of Master and Pupil. My sole and great concern is our Confederation and the war to come. The only difficulty we face here is that of timing. Our plans here must go forward, Viceroy, surely you understand that?" He leaned forward into the holobeam, knowing that this would make his features appear to loom hugely on the other side of the transmission. "You _do_ understand the _consequences_ of _betraying_ our _cause_?"

Again, Gunray visibly flinched. Amidala merely raised an eyebrow. _Damn the woman!_

Turning to Gunray, Amidala said, "Viceroy, you must understand that all the data and prototypes for the water technology are down on the planet you are planning to attack." Turning back to face the holobeam, she added, "Anakin, if Tatooine is destroyed, how long would it take you to reproduce everything you have built and tested here in another location?"

For a fleeting second, it seemed as if Anakin was suppressing a smile, but the impression passed just a quickly. Crossing his arms over his chest, Anakin frowned and thought for a moment. "The first setup took me five years to complete. I suppose, with enough resources, I could rebuild it all in a year. But without my data, I'd need to do the experiments all over again. Two years with the research, say. Give or take."

Dooku ground his teeth.

"Two more years to reach the point where the technology could be produced and sold." Amidala summarized. "And if you were to have access to your existing laboratories on Tatooine?" she continued calmly, looking intently at Anakin. "Assuming you had all the resources you need, how long before production could begin?"

Anakin focused on Amidala to the exclusion of all else. "We could start production as soon as a facility is built," he said slowly. "If we started work now ... perhaps by BoontaEve?"

Amidala nodded almost imperceptibly, and Anakin's shoulders seemed to relax a fraction.

_They're making this up as they go along! _Dooku realized furiously, but Gunray was already taken in. Even in the bluish light of the holobeam, the Nemoidian's eyes glowed hot with the fever of greed.

"I'm certain it won't be difficult to transfer this technology – whatever it is – elsewhere." Dooku was finding it harder and harder to hide his impatience. "I will contribute whatever resources are necessary, including my apprentice's time. But right now..."

"Liar!" Anakin hissed, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Dooku whirled to face him.

"You promised to spare my planet and everyone on it if I came with you. Well, I'm here – not because I'm any apprentice of yours, but because of that promise. This is the perfect opportunity for a strategic withdrawal, and yet you're still trying to get back to your original agenda of destroying Tatooine and everyone on it." Anakin stepped closer until they were practically nose-to-nose. "I owe you nothing. Our deal is off."

"A deal?" Nute Gunray squealed. I KNEW it!"

Dooku's attention remained wholly on Anakin. "You arrogant pup!" he snarled. "What makes you think that you will outlive your usefulness?"

"You surprise me, Count Dooku." Amidala's voice cut through the argument. "Is it possible that you truly believe in old-style military dominance over economic and political ascendancy? The ability to create, and to supply, something as basic as unlimited water... do you genuinely believe that it is in anyone's best interest to destroy that ... power?"

_Water? Is that what they are talking about? ... Wait, WATER? _Finally, in a belated flash of insight, Dooku understood the extent to which he had underestimated the boy. However dazzled Anakin might have been by him initially, he had known how to keep his secrets to himself.

He turned slowly to his rebellious apprentice. The invisible Force bonds around Anakin tightened. Sweat stood out all over the boy's skin, and he was having trouble breathing.

"You... can create water?" Dooku murmured, too low for the others to hear.

"In a manner of speaking. I can certainly ...encourage... it."

"And you did not see fit to tell me about this?"

"None... of your business," Anakin gritted out.

"Oh, but it is, my young, misguided apprentice. Everything about you is my business." Dooku leaned closer. "Everything that is yours is _mine_!"

"You... wish..." The boy was beginning to turn blue, but his attitude hadn't improved one iota. And in truth, Dooku felt other kinds of binders tightening around himself in equal measure that he was making Anakin suffer. Sidious. The Coalition. His Master's careful plan, sabotaged by Dooku's insane hopes for this one defiant, insufferably talented creature...

_I'm dead,_ he thought. _I'm dead anyway._ _I won't survive Sidious' wrath over this._

"Let... me... GO!" Anakin kept struggling, but it was more a battle of wills than bodies. The binders were invisible. To the observers, it might have looked like no more than a hissed private conversation. Caught in the vortex of fear and fury that both powered him and bound him, the world receded, and Dooku existed only in a blinding flux of rage and fear. Wisdom, experience, logic; all these were lost to him as Dooku sank down, down, down into blackness and despair, dragging Anakin with him, refusing to let him go. The boy weakened. Slumped. He could barely even gasp.

"Count Dooku!" Again, Amidala's voice pierced Dooku's mental cloud like a sharp blade. Would the woman never stop talking? She was droning on and on about mutual benefit and a solution that would serve them all.

A solution? Absurd. There was no solution. There was only Sidious, and the punishment for failure...

"Anakin! Anakin!" Now the insect drone was calling out Anakin's name. _Shut up, woman, shut up, shut up..._

Dooku felt a sudden snap of release, as if something had broken, and a dizzy flash. When he returned to his senses, he lay crumpled against the nav. console. Across the room, distorted by the conical holobeam and the transparent figure of Amidala within it, Anakin stood trembling and panting, glaring at him with a look of such pure undistorted hatred that Dooku nearly laughed. _Welcome to my world, Anakin. Your hate makes you powerful._

"Anakin!" Amidala was saying again. Her courtier's mask could not hide the true fear in her voice. "Are you all right? What happened?"

Anakin shook himself like an animal after a fight, breathed deeply and stepped closer to the beam, all the while keeping a watch on Dooku out of the corner of his eye.

"It's nothing," he lied. "A difference of opinion, that's all. I... I need to talk to you privately about the water technology."

Gunray immediately appeared in the beam, as if he had been lurking nearby.

"Anything that is to be said must be said before me," he whined. "I must know everything if I am to make such an investment."

With all the indifference of the condemned for the petty, deluded strivings of the still living, Dooku remained where he was to watch the goings-on. It had nothing to do with him. Not anymore.

Anakin and Amidala locked gazes, and Dooku saw her nod ever so slightly. On that tiny signal, Anakin took a breath.

"There is no doubt that the water technology, as you call it, works, and will work under any conditions. There's just a small problem with reproducing it widely. You see... to be set into motion, the process needs um..." Anakin shuffled his feet.

"Go on," Amidala said gently.

"Um... the process is triggered by..." Anakin seemed to search for words. "I guess you would call it... Jedi powers? I mean, in our labs, nobody can get it working except... me."

Dooku's fog lifted. _What?_

"Jedi... what?" Gunray echoed him in a kind of high-pitched squeak. "Skywalker, are you telling me that this process of yours is not scientific, but some kind of religious fakery?"

"No! No, Viceroy, I'm not saying that at all. It _is_ scientific. It _can_ be replicated. It's just that ... well... one of the components, let's say, requires what the Jedi would call an application of the Force."

The cloud around Dooku vanished. The bright light of comprehension finally restored his wits, and with the return of his intellect came the purely joyful knowledge that once again, of all the beings in the Galaxy, he, Dooku, was the only one who truly grasped all the implications of what had just taken place. Sitting all alone on the floor, he started to laugh so loudly and joyfully that everyone turned to stare. Sidious... by the Force, had he just been sitting here waiting to die by that creature's will? Sidious had been wrong all this time, and he had been wrong to follow him! Sidious was an outdated relic of an ancient Sith past. The bothersome Amidala had been right in her own way – war was no longer the path to domination. Military might was not the path to power. _Power_ was the path to more power – the power to decide life and death.

Water was life. Water was death. And Anakin... he'd been right about the boy all along. Anakin was the key to the future. Just not in the way that he had initially understood.

As lightly as a child, for he once again felt like a child, at least in spirit, Dooku leaped to his feet. The others gaped at the change in him. "Don't worry, Viceroy," he said cheerfully, approaching the holobeam. "It isn't a problem. The Galaxy is full of beings with these abilities. This just means that the production and distribution processes require special resources and specially skilled management with a vast network of the right contacts. In other words, it needs someone like...me." He bowed with a flourish, enjoying the slack-mouthed looks of shock on all three staring faces.

"No!" Anakin sputtered.

Dooku ignored him. "I suggest the following. The four of us comprise the perfect partnership for moving forward with this enterprise. Anakin, of course, is the inventor and holder of the intellectual property. You, Viceroy, have the fleet and the infrastructure for distribution. The Senator has the necessary political clout and contacts, and I have the necessary knowledge to make the process work ...

"No!" Anakin shouted.

"... and, of course, the vast resources it will require to bring it into full development. What do you say, Viceroy? Senator?"

"Yes," Gunray said so quickly that he almost tripped over whatever passes for a tongue in Neimoidian. "But of course, we will have to negotiate suitable terms..."

Dooku waved his hand airily. "Of course. A mere detail. Money, my dear Gunray, is no object." He looked at Amidala. "Senator?"

Anakin looked despairingly at her. "Padme, please..." Amidala gave him a long, unreadable look, and then spoke to Dooku directly.

"You will disperse this fleet immediately, never to return."

"Of course."

"You will free Anakin from whatever ... bonds... you believe tie him to you. You mentioned... an apprenticeship?"

Dooku's sunny mood dampened slightly, but a quick review of the larger picture confirmed that the apprenticeship too was a mere detail. There would be other ways to achieve his goals. Anakin was his regardless.

"Agreed."

Beside him, Anakin sighed.

"And finally, you will submit to the Senate a declaration of peace, in which you will detail the steps your organization will take to dismantle all preparations for Galactic War."

The woman really was the bastard child of a hellhound. Was nothing ever enough for her? She was forcing his hand.

Ah, so be it. A bold move was required, so a bold move he would make. It occurred to him that death as a free man was quite a different thing from death in bondage. He chose death in freedom, if death it was to be.

"Were it entirely up to me, Senator, I would agree to this condition also. But I cannot. For you see, I am not the sole architect of this war. There is... another."

More shock from Gunray and Amidala. None from Anakin. Amidala, clever girl, appeared to notice that. _And here, my friends, is where the future begins. We stand before Fortune's gate._

"If this ... other... believes I have betrayed him, the future ends right here. _Everyone's _future. Do you understand?"

Gunray gaped. Amidala nodded tersely.

"I must continue to act as if nothing has changed. I can subvert this little invasion, but for now, that is all."

"How can we trust such a double dealer?" Gunray rasped.

Dooku shrugged delicately. "As long as I remain alive and playing my game, everyone survives. Otherwise..." He let the sentence trail.

"All right." Amidala had her mask on again. It was impossible to see what she was thinking. Hopefully she would continue to act intelligently.

"Well, then. It seems we have a pact."

"Wait." Gunray looked at Anakin. "What about you, Skywalker? You have not agreed to anything. Will you give us access to your process and your labs?"

Anakin closed his eyes. The ensuing silence was so intense that it set the Force shimmering. At last he said, "Senator Amidala negotiates for me in all things. Her word is my word."

Dooku rounded on him. "And your word to me? My success ... _our_ success ... depends on your assistance."

Another long silence. Anakin looked down at his feet. "I agree."

"Well, then. It seems we have our bargain."

"Turn back your fleet, Dooku," Amidala snapped, all pretense of courtesy gone.

In his new frame of mind, her tone didn't bother Dooku in the slightest. He had far graver concerns.

"Stand by." With a wave of his hand, he ended the transmission. After a pause to muster all his courage, he entered a code into the comm. Then he stepped back, staring at the machine.

_No going back now._

Anakin looked sidelong at him. "What now?"

"We wait."

"What for?"

"A glimpse of what is to come." Dooku closed his eyes, discouraging any further questions. Silently they stood side by side in the center of the sleek, nearly silent bridge, neither speaking nor moving, for more than a quarter of an hour, until the Comm. sounded once more.

"Stand there, out of sight." He pointed to Anakin's corner. Anakin went.

The conical beam reappeared, and in it, like a dark deed personified, the full-height image of Darth Sidious. Dooku could not look at it – at him – without the familiar rush of hate. He bowed deeply.

"DARTH TYRANNUS!"

"Master."

"You _bow_ to me?"

Sweat sprang up along the former Jedi Master's spine. He couldn't help it. "I do, Master."

"You will KNEEL!"

Even though his heart rebelled, his legs bent automatically, driven by a more primal impulse.

Sidious was displeased. But then, Dooku had known that he would be. He lowered his head and waited.

"What is it, Lord Tyrannus, that made you believe you could alter MY plans one iota?"

Dooku swallowed. "The confidence that you have shown in my judgment these past ten years, My Lord."

The Sith Lord made a sound like an animal's snarl. "That confidence was EARNED."

Dooku didn't respond. One didn't, when his Master was in this state.

"I TOLD YOU TO DESTROY THE PLANET!"

Alas, that _did_ require a response... quite possibly, his last. Dooku steeled himself. He had never been a coward.

"It seemed unwise to move precipitously, My Lord, considering the presence of two persons of interest on the planet below. Senator Amidala, the prize demanded by the Trade Federation, is hiding on Tatooine. It would be difficult to provide Gunray with proof of her death if she were to die as anonymously as she is attempting to live."

The holotranmitter hissed coldly; the Sith Lord equally so, in his eventual response.

"And ... the second person of interest?"

This was the hardest part. The Great Gamble on which Dooku's dearest plans would pivot. The gauntlet he was about to throw down before the most dangerous creature in the Galaxy.

"Anakin Skywalker, of course. Given your particular interest in him, it struck me as ... wasteful ... to destroy him."

Sidious had never mentioned Anakin in Dooku's presence. Never.

"Skywalker?"

"Yes, My Lord."

"What do you know of Anakin Skywalker, Lord Tyrannus?"

"He sought me out, asking to be trained in the Dark Arts."

"He sought YOU out?"

"Yes, Master."

"And did you take him on?"

"Of course, Master. How could I not?"

A faint sound, a cross between a growl and a hiss, emerged from Sidious' waxy lips.

"Where is Skywalker now?"

"On the planet below."

"Why is he not with you?"

Dooku took a quiet breath to modulate his nerves. Equanimity was the key. He strove for balance.

"He objects to the destruction of his planet, and has embedded himself there as an ultimatum to me: he will die with his planet, or join me if I refrain from destroying it."

"You incompetent cur!" Sidious hissed. "How is it that you can be bested by a mere child!"

No response was expected, Dooku knew, because his throat was closing in the grip of a great invisible fist. He didn't fight it. Fighting only made it worse. Using all of his skill he relaxed his body, stopped breathing altogether, and endured. This time, he actually blacked out before Sidious released his hold, leaving him gagging and coughing pathetically on the cold floor in front of the holobeam. This, to be endured, heartened a little by the realization that Anakin had remained stoically in his corner with no more presence than a shadow.

"Pull the fleet back to deep space. Get Skywalker. And bring him before me."

_That is what I was already doing, you moldy excrescence_. But Dooku touched his head to the floor in front of the holobeam and murmured, "As you command, Master. And..." he dared raise his head a few inches, "... and Amidala?"

"Give her to Gunray as compensation."

"It will be done, Master."

"As you will be, if you disobey my orders one more time."

The holobeam vanished. Dooku took his time getting up from the floor. He was fully back on his feet before Anakin finally emerged from the shadows.

"Now you understand, Anakin. This is the full scope of the bargain you have made. Your planet for that creature's life."

"He... he knows about me."

"Yes."

"But how?"

"Don't be naïve, Anakin. He has had occasion to observe you. No one in the Galaxy has a better eye for raw talent than Darth Sidious."

Anakin remained silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was unsteady. "It seems that you have made a number of different bargains, Dooku. Which one will you keep?"

"Well, that IS the question, isn't it?" Dooku stepped closer, staring into Anakin's face. "The answer, my young apprentice, is entirely up to you. And by the way, you will henceforth address me as 'Count Dooku', or preferably, 'Master.'

Anakin shot him a look that would have shriveled a lesser man's flesh. "Don't count on it... _Dooku_." This time his voice didn't shake at all.

_So insubordinate._ Officially Dooku glowered.

(Inside, he smiled.)


End file.
